Retrogression
by Kuja's Little Mage
Summary: Fallen into a state of great disrepair, Samus Aran finds herself coping with the monstrous side-effects of her Metroid DNA. Thrust into a race against time for a cure, she is aided with the help of two new Hunter allies. Post-Fusion, Femslash, SamusxOC
1. Phaaze 01: Slow Burn

**Author's Notes: **Welcome to the strange lovechild of my storytelling and my dear friend AceAssassin's writing talents. We one day decided that we should try to tackle a Metroid fanfiction, and try to do something a little different with it.

The first thing to note is that this is a post-_Metroid Fusion _fiction, a timeline that my friend has noted (so far as he's seen) is covered in very few fanfics if at all. Therefore, there are a lot of loose ends left to us, and we decided to play with them accordingly.

Another thing to note is that this is an OC fanfic. As writers, the both of us understand that the balance between playing this right and making a Sue is a delicate one. However, we have been taking great care to avoid that sort of situation--both of us are firmly Anti-Sue.

We hope that you as the readers will enjoy this strange little lovechild, despite all of the dark overshadowing in this fic and the grim outlook it appears to begin with. We can promise you that things will eventually begin to look up--just not yet!

_This fan-fic is a test in "stockpiling" of chapters, which means that you, as the readers, will always be about 5 or 6 chapters behind what is written. This is so the story can update on a regular basis. Therefore, the _**update schedule **_for this fic will be _**every Tuesday and Thursday, US East Coast time.** That said, on to business!

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**Phaaze 01: Slow Burn**

Pain twists a maze through my right arm and I tighten my fist as a temporary remedy. It's a common annoyance now, this pain—I've learned how to live with it, and, for the most part, how to ignore it.

Sometimes, though, the pain is too much, and I need to eat something. I need to eat something or I feel like my legs will give out from under me and I'll turn into a functionless shell of my former self. I know that these monstrous urges are not mine: they're the potent, primal desires of a Metroid. They are so much in contrast to my own personal morals that I'm sick and disgusted with myself at every feeding. I hate this new part of me: this so-called "cure" that purged my body of the X, only to present a fresh problem in its place that has threatened to consume me every day of my life since the serum was administered.

But it is a "necessary evil", as they say; so I can only complain so much.

When the pain finds no place for itself in my arm, it manifests as a terrible pang of light and hypersensitivity to sound. My head gives a sharp throb and I take two large white pills from a prescription bottle in one belt pack. I drop them on my tongue and chase them down with a long swish of Kaon-brewed amber ale. It is a bitter, frothy liquid whose taste is second only to motor oil; it is also the only drink I can stand to afford at this cheap slum-level bar that is strong enough to numb my body, and allow me _not_ to think about the corrosive Metroid lust spinning its way into my daily habits.

My name is Samus Aran. I _used_ to be one of the greatest Bounty Hunters for the Galactic Federation.

These days, I'm just a freelance for-hire slumming it through the lower areas of known space; away from the ever-watchful eyes of the Federation. I stick to the shadows of civilization, where their influence hasn't yet pierced a system's inhabitants. This is actually not as difficult as one might think: as long as the Federation is convinced they have a foothold in a single important corner of a system, they tend to leave the rest of that area to itself, interfering with the work of things only when something is _down there _that could potentially throw a wrench in their gears. Or sometimes they just like to show up and remind everyone that they exist. Many of the citizens down here couldn't give a rat's ass, however.

Kaon IV is a perfect hidey-hole for an on-the-run ex-Hunter such as me. It's a sizable colony stationed on the edges of the Dasha System, composed of layers of buildings steadily being constructed on top of one another. If you started at the core of the colony and worked your way up, you could see for yourself as the buildings slowly began to grow stronger, sturdier, bigger; _taller_. At its barest point, there are so many new Upper Levels that the only real light is given off by brightly-colored signs and crude advertisements for various businesses; some are more dishonest than others. On the Upper Levels, where spires and skyscrapers of varying alien origin stretch to the stars above, people of a more "respectable" commerce cheat their customers in ways significantly more subtle than picking the change out of their pockets. Down here, in the East District of Base Level 4, business managers are a lot more _forward_. It's the last place _any_ employ of the Galactic Federation would like to stick their noses in, and I like it that way.

Obviously, the Federation and I don't get along very well anymore. After the SR388 Incident, its highest commanding officers decided to take a personal interest in my existence and re-think my business relations. I was taken to a high court to defend my case. I tried to explain to the Judges the reasoning for my actions; the danger that lay behind the existence of that place and the measures I had to go through to ensure the safety of the galaxy. I reminded them that I had been specifically sent there _on their orders_ to complete a mission for the better good. Back then, I firmly believed in the foolish notion that the Federation could still save face and see the moral _right_ in what I'd done, despite some of their darker projects which I had not personally agreed with.

Not surprisingly, this notion turned out to be a false one.

The Federation placed blame on me for the destruction of their Restricted Labs, evidently refuting all tangible truth in my case. Their Metroid pet project had been more important to them than the immediate danger at hand. The only thing that saved me from losing my job was my prestigious fame as one of their better Bounty Hunters.

Turns out, though, that I lost it anyway.

I was blatantly offered an under-the-table salary. The Federation specifically entailed that, although they would not revoke my Hunting status, they would no longer assign me onto any missions. No matter how crucial. But they were willing to continue supporting me on a "paid vacation" on an "indefinite leave of absence." They were _bribing _me. I had seen too much, and they wanted me to keep my mouth shut.

Fuck that! I'm _nobody's_ baggage. If they didn't want the risk of someone discovering their private little work station, they shouldn't have cleaved a path for one of their best Hunters to pick through the area. The only reason I haven't told anyone about the Federation's darker underbelly is because it's simply no longer my problem. The Restricted Labs—and SR388—have been destroyed for seven years and counting now. And I am _glad_ for that. I can't imagine what the world would be like today if that ghastly place still existed.

So, at any rate, I guess I'm still technically a Bounty Hunter. But it's just a title now, and as I sit here slowly downing my frothy pint of cheapened motor oil, I'm a little ashamed to continue carrying it. It's just one more extra tag to remind me of my former life, which I now want no part of. I get bitter when I think of the memories, and I don't like to stay that way. I like to think there's at least _some _hope left for this life; that I can still make a difference; just using another method that I haven't tried before.

It's not a life of luxury; I'll give you that much. Way I operate now, my jobs are few and far between, and they're mostly just Fetchers—my coined term for missions where I'm just sent to pick something up and bring it back. I fetch things. Like a dog. But it pays. And every once in a while, hey, who knows? I might get an exciting piece of _bounty_ to go and catch. Those jobs get grabbed from the board pretty quickly, and I have to have a fast hand in order to beat the competition to the big money. Sometimes I get lucky. Other times I turn around and sink in front of the bar and order another round of Kaon ale. Paychecks are unsteady and barely enough to keep a damned leaky roof over my head, let alone fix my ship. My poor ship…that baby's seen a lot of abuse over the years. Don't know why she hasn't broken down yet. Sturdy old bitch, that one is.

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I meditate and reflect on the way things are now. I'm in a pretty pathetic state, compared to where I used to be. People who sign me up for Fetchers still (somehow) manage to admire me because of my fame; because of my past. They don't bother to look at me and tell me how I should be better than scraping at the bottom of the barrel.

But when I think about the _guilt_ I'd have to live with if I'd taken that "paid vacation," I realize it's not so bad.

Arm hurts again.

Damn! I didn't even get to finish my motor oil.

I can't deny it for very long this time. It's been a good while since I've fed on anything, and my arm gets greedy. I'm good at suppressing it, but I'm not _that _good. In the face of raw, primal need, morality loses out.

I wear a pair of black opera-length gloves to hide what I hate about myself. My fingers twitch as I reach for a few chips of Federation currency and throw them on the countertop next to my empty pint and half-finished second round. The bartender really hates when I use Federation currency, even though it rightly pays about three times more than that shitty brew is worth. What can I say? I'm a woman of two things: honesty, and generosity. I'm being _generous_ by giving the bartender that money, and I'm being _honest_ when I say that brew is the worst mug of paste-thin fuel gel I've ever tasted.

As I leave the tiny bar, the thick smell of too many sweaty bodies crammed into one space leaves my nose and is replaced by the putrid scent of industrial Lower Level air: so drenched with harmful fumes and cloudy smoke that I'm shocked I can still take a breath without ripping my lungs out of my chest. I guess it doesn't matter, anyway, since I've been in Kaon long enough to get used to it. The smell doesn't bother me anymore, really.

Navigating the streets of the Base Levels can be either cut-and-dry or unnecessarily complicated, depending on how well you know the area. For me, it's pretty cut-and-dry. The streets are sliced in neat little plaid rows, like squares on a waffle iron; the only way it could be difficult is if anyone couldn't read the jumbled multi-language signs marking every corner of every block. Depending on the dominant species living in a district, the signs display in different languages. Sometimes they're blacked out or painted over by mischievous little twats whose great idea of _fun_ is to deface every bare wall and post they come into contact with. Nobody said it was an _efficient_ system; still, actually having a system is better than having none at all.

Arm's getting worse. It pulsates with every swing, jerks with every little movement I make. It's starving. _I'm_ starving.

I keep my eyes open, breaking out in a nervous sheet of sweat. Sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy; then I take off the gloves, and remember I'm as sane as I've ever been.

I see a rat skittering into an offshoot from the street I'm walking on and my eyes immediately dart over to it. It's a big one, almost the size of a small dog. It's ducked into one of the alley-like spaces between complexes that litter the Base Levels like toothpicks dropped on a flat surface. He'll do just fine.

Entering a primal stalking mode that overtakes me only when I cannot deny my body this voracious hunger, I creep into the alleyway, my steps light and careful as the rat climbs into a toppled garbage can to sift through the filthy, rotten contents. My arm twinges in time with the slow beat of my heart as I reach for the glove on my right arm, gently peeling it off as I crouch low on the ground. An onion-thin layer of gelatinous goo sticks to the inside of the glove as I pull it off from the fingers. The rat doesn't even notice my presence until it's too late.

Sorry, little guy.

He gives a frantic squeak and fights like mad when I pick him up; gel-like, blue-green arm snapping out with inhuman reflexes, grayed claw-like fingertips sinking into his flesh. The twitching veins underneath the jelly surface of my skin thicken as the energy crawls through them, and I can't help but roll my eyes and sigh, sharing this disgusting pleasure that my arm takes in draining the life out of this poor creature in my hand. Drifting, bubbly red nuclei float freely through the spaces between the veins. The sticky flesh of my forearm glows bright and my veins light up blood-red. The rat eventually stops struggling, but I'm not done yet. I squeeze and squeeze until I can feel bones crunching. I squeeze until the energy ends and my alien veins shrink, replacing the flow of life with the flow of memories as I close my eyes.

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_Panic reigns over me. I touch my skin and watch as a thick glob of it comes off on my fingers like lubricant, the remaining dent filled in quickly as the goo re-spawns itself to maintain an even surface. There are no words to describe my heartfelt terror as my mouth drops open and I rip out a scream. "Adam! What's happening to me?!"_

_No response. Is he as frightened as I am?_

"_Adam!" I try again. Still only silence replies. I shake my head and bang my fists, my right hand leaving splatters of green Metroid jelly on the controls. This can't be real. This can't be real! It's just a dream; I'm just asleep, and I'll wake up soon, and it'll all be a horrible nightmare. I'll be where I'm supposed to be and Adam will reassure me that everything will be alright. But if that's true, then why can't I see the stars of space through the slew of salty tears streaking down my cheeks?_

"_Adam! Please! Tell me what the hell is going on! Adam! ADAM!!"_

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Reality rebounds and I open my eyes, staring at the monstrous arm in front of me that has caused me so much trouble.

I've dropped the poor rat on the ground. I look down and, morbidly, swish my still-gloved hand against its fur. It crumbles into dust that immediately evaporates into the air.

I stand and put the glove back onto my right hand, the hunger satisfied.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.


	2. Phaaze 02: Hum Drum Slum

**Notes: **And now we get a peek into what Samus' life is like at present...

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**Phaaze 02: Hum-Drum Slum**

It's always dark when I get back to my crummy little apartment on the outskirts of the East District. The only thing telling me time has stretched into the ungodly early hours is the multi-language digital clock by my bed when I reach my room.

The apartment is in shambles and is barely kept together. Not much more I can expect from this place. The rent is pitiably affordable and I sometimes have enough extra money to spruce up the walls a little bit. There's only enough room for _me _in here—the messy living room also doubles as the kitchen, and a fold-out dining table slides into view from one of the kitchen counters with the simple press of a button. A cramped little laundry room shoots off into a long-forgotten corner next to a tiny, dusty closet where I keep all of my clothes. My room isn't much bigger, hardly able to accommodate my Queen-size bed and the undersized nightstand on its left side, which just holds my clock, a neat purple luminescent lamp and a book I've read about twenty times by now. I particularly like the lamp. I got it cheap at a thrift store on one of the Base Levels; the constant glow is soothing to me.

My Fusion Suit sits in a containment chamber in one corner of the bedroom, where there's just enough room for it. I'm lucky to be able to keep up maintenance on the chamber so that my suit stays in good working order. The walls are peeling like old snake skin and the roof leaks with hyper-condensation every summer without fail; but damn it, if this shithole falls apart on me, my suit _will_ be able to fit like a dream and move like silk.

I do, however, miss my beloved Power Suit. (How many times have I had to get that thing back now?) I wasn't able to save it the last time. The Fusion Suit has similar colors now, like the Varia, but it's just a mock-up. Whenever I look at it, I long for the familiar fit of the Power Suit. I'm not quite sure where to get a new one now, though. The Chozo have long since vanished from any galactic map. It would be phenomenal if I could find them again, though I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay them for everything they did for me. There has to be _something_ I can do to help, but they're not here to guide me. Not here to tell me where I should go. I get lonely, sometimes, when I think about them.

There's a small bathroom adjacent to the bedroom; and I mean, _small. _Like, miniscule. Like everything else in this backwater cave. Here's how it looks when I walk in: there's about four feet of moving space, _not_ including the necessary obstructions. Which are, as follows: a shelf for towels on the left wall and a small sink with a mirror jammed into the right next to the toilet. Pipes visibly run along the wall between them, and right in front of me, four or five feet in, there's the shower. The tiling has chipped off near the base of the showerhead and there's some unsightly yellow grime on the bottom of the curtains. The mirror is alright, except it's always foggy, even with the hot water turned off. Bad glass, I keep telling myself; cheap glass.

Everything I need to keep myself neat and clean is scattered, either sitting in a jumble on the sink or shoved into a corner on the floor of the shower. You'd think it a miracle I can find anything in the mess, but there's a method to the madness, I promise. For example, when I take off my clothes and start to shower, everything hair-related is in front. Body stuff and an overused washcloth are just behind it, and lodged into the deepest nook of the corner are the womanly things. Shaving, you know. I could last on one set of this stuff for months, but I prefer not to. Still, when I'm low on money, things like eating and having water in the pipes come _way_ before smooth legs and smelling like lilacs.

Helps make every shower a great shower, in my opinion.

Washing yourself with one free hand sounds difficult, especially when it's not your dominant hand; but I've learned to be ambidextrous. I refuse to touch myself with this gelatin arm. I've had nightmares of sinking those claws into my belly and sucking my own life energy dry until someone comes along and brushes against me; then I watch myself disintegrate. Even though I know it's irrational—I've tested the nightmare's theory, and there's no way I can possibly drain energy from myself—the phobia still haunts me, so I play it safe. I only use my right hand when I'm wearing the gloves.

But I've noticed, to my great dismay, the claws are starting to get more…well…claw-like. Not sure if opera gloves are going to be a sufficient disguise as of _soon. _Note to self: find a more hardy set of hand-socks.

I always turn the water as hot as I can stand and the bathroom is always a fogged-up sauna when I'm done. I love it that way, though. I still have a staunch aversion to anything cold. My Fusion Suit has the Ice Beam capability again, but I'm only able to use it because of a special guarding it has against my Metroid DNA. Haven't used the Ice Beam in a while though, actually; I've not laid eyes on a real Metroid for years.

After brushing my teeth and combing a brush through my hair, I wipe some of the condensation off the mirror with my left hand. It's still pretty damn cloudy, but I can see myself. I take a good long look at my reflection.

I haven't seen real sunlight in at least a couple of years. I look pallid and tired. I look _older_, even with the Chozo blood that slows my aging process. There are faint dark bags under my eyes because I don't sleep very well. I cut my hair four years ago when I couldn't afford to take care of it long. It doesn't look so bad, though, and my head feels much lighter without all that weight pulling on my skull. When it's dry I still have those front bangs and tendrils, the latter a bit past my ears. I like to spike up the back tuft and brush it away from the front. I've found just one reason why I like my jelly arm: collecting the thin layer of secretion in my hair makes for a _great_ styling gel. Fantastic hold, gives a bit of texture, and—my favorite part—it never runs out.

And I'm still in great shape. Most women would _kill_ for a body like this.

See, I try to look at the bright side of things once in a while. It's hard, but not impossible. The little things are the ones that count.

Ten short minutes later I'm dressed in my gloves and an itchy bathrobe that I've had since my apartment on the Swifter Colony in a lesser-known cluster of the Tetra Galaxy. I don't know why they called it the Swifter Colony. It wasn't moving very fast, nor did anything in their services process in a very timely manner. And the inhabitants were always crowding my space. I lived there for about two months before I packed up and left.

The jarring ring of a telephone screams for my attention while I'm in the middle of fixing myself a shot glass of Sleeper Gel. It's not so bad when it goes down, but the aftertaste is a bitch. I always make toast and jam to help wash that down.

It's two-forty A.M. and I wanna know who in their right mind would have the brass balls to call me at this hour of the night. Whoever it is, they're lucky I wasn't asleep. Crossing what little space I have to for the video-phone in the living room, I don't even glance at the caller I.D. as I firmly punch the button that picks up the call. The small, static-ridden flat screen flickers to life and a sickly-colored, disembodied teardrop head stares at me, single red Cyclops eye peering out from the pasty pink pigmentation of the creature's skin.

"Shield," I grumble.

Shield is one of my Fetcher customers. He's a disgrace to his kind; an utter failure at the proud Kriken tradition of conquering distant planets. The only good thing he could ever do was to pick up useless scrap and con it off in a deal to anyone who was stupid enough to believe his word—which is most everyone, since his customers tend to wet their pants when they realize Shield is a Kriken. He doesn't even fill the criteria for being a good tech expert. He buys junk, collects junk, and sells junk. But despite his waning complexion, the label of his origin scares everyone he meets into paying him outrageous amounts of cash for pieces of outdated material that are about as useful as a wet piece of paper. He usually blows this cash on cases of expensive Upper Level alcohol within a couple of weeks; therefore he is always scraping the galaxy for new junk to sell. I think the booze may have been his downfall in the first place.

The ill-looking Kriken on the screen quirks his head to one side, hissing in bad English with a voice thick as molasses. "Sssamusssss."

"Why am I not surprised?" I sigh, "What do you want?"

"Have new job for you," rasps Shield, his body twitching uncontrollably. He's hit rock bottom again. "Quick run. Good pay. You do?"

As usual, he's being vague, and I have to wrench the information out of him. I lean forward on the small couch where I'm sitting and leer at him. "What am I getting?"

"Box," clips Shield. His frail arms quiver into sight and make useless gestures. "Friend of mine in scrap yard say it have good stuff. You go get box from him."

He always speaks like this: thick voice, slow words, usually slurred together. The only other Kriken I met was _loads_ more intelligent than this pathetic husk; I'm not sure if it's the booze or if he just has the deluded notion that I'm stupid. Shield likes to assume he's still the greatest thing since sliced bread, despite the fact that his empire has just about forgotten he even exists.

"What friend?" I demand. "What scrap yard, where?"

The pasty Kriken shudders and his head twitches to his left. I growl at him. "Shield—_what_ scrap yard?"

Shield's head makes a series of unnatural twitching movements before shaking rapidly from side to side. "…Ssssilthen Region," he sneers, Cyclops eye dimming.

I draw back, getting ready to leave. The Silthen Region is an area of space neighboring Dasha, but it's much deeper in the clutches of the Federation; too much chance they'll pick me up on their radar. "No. Find someone else."

"Wait!" he cries, arms trembling as he wails like a spoiled child, "You not hear my offer!"

"I don't need to. It's late. Good night, Shield." I reach for the End Call button.

Shield practically shrieks at me through the transmission. "Is good pay! You only one who do it! Good at hiding from Federation! Others not go; too dangerousss for them!"

"Not my problem," I shrug, "You should make some better friends."

A pathetic whining noise filters through. "Samusss! You hurt me! Why be nasty lady?" Shield's shoulders shiver and he makes an odd arch forward with his body. "Help friend Shield! Shield nice Kriken! When Shield ever cheat you on job?"

My right pointer finger hovers over the button. "No such thing as a nice Kriken," I spit. The gloved claw moves down to press. "Good _night_, Shield."

Shield makes a desperate noise and his whole body jumps. "Ssssixty-thousand!"

It gets my attention.

I stare blatantly at the screen while the alcoholic Kriken continues to jerk and sway in his ever-constant hangover, like a junkie thirsting for a fix.

"I give you sixty-thousand!" he repeats.

But that number could mean anything from dirt money to riches. "Sixty-thousand _what?"_ I snap.

"Dasssha Silver," says Shield hastily. "That good for you? Ssssixty-thousand Dasha Sssilver Pieces." Now that he knows he has my attention, his voice goes back to a molasses purr from the shrill screams of seconds past. "I have. I pay half on spot. Pay other half when you bring box. Good? You do?"

60,000 Dasha Silver Pieces.

I roll the number around in my head, my eyes glazing over. Shield is right about one thing: it's a good, heavy sum. Just half of that would be enough to last me for another month, maybe two if I stretch it. Dasha Silver is universal in the region of its name and trades in Kaon like bars of gold—even better than Federation Chips.

The only problem is that Shield, more often than not, is broke off his ass. There's never a good way of telling whether or not he's giving the whole truth.

"Bring me thirty-thousand by the end of tomorrow, and I'll believe you," I say slowly. "And Shield?"

Hope is glistening in his face like nervous sweat. His one red eye flickers and he cocks his head at me.

I lean forward and give him my sternest glare. "If I find out you can't pay me the rest, I'll sniff out your hiding spot and kill you in your sleep."

He's a fallen member of the Kriken species, and the size of his ego is rivaled only by Mother Brain, and when I speak those words he shivers in terror and gives a frantic nod.

"Good," I say. "Remember: by the end of tomorrow."

I press the End Call button and the screen goes blank. Sinking back on the couch, I swirl the paste-white liquid in my shot glass and hear the toast is ready. I take the Sleeper Gel with me and fix two pieces of toast and raspberry jam, stacking them on top of one another.

Taking a deep breath, I swig the Sleeper Gel in one go. It creeps over my tongue and I hurry it down my throat, the sweet coconut taste quickly being replaced by a bitter sting as I slam the shot glass down. I take a huge bite of toast and chew as quickly as I can. I swallow.

By the time I finish my toast and reach my bed, my eyes are drooping shut and the lumpy pillow under my head feels like heaven. I close my eyes and sleep dreamlessly. My right hand twitches as my consciousness slips.


	3. Phaaze 03: Tech Hunters

And now we get an insight into the co-stars!

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**Phaaze 03: Tech Hunters**

When I wake up, the stiffness of cryo-sleep still lingers in my bones. I blink slowly. I think slowly. For a moment or two, even the dim light of the ship's interior blinds my eyes…I'm grateful for the tall, lanky body that soon blocks it out as I stretch, up and out of the cryo bed.

The smooth, quicksilver tongue of the Luminoth drifts through my ears.

"'**Rise and shine', as your people say."  
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I rub my eyes and groan. Crack a few bones in my spine, my shoulders, and my neck. Cryo-stasis: love the way you sleep, hate the way you wake.

Once I've got my bearings, my fingers rake back through tight scattered dreadlocks and unkempt spirals of hair where the dreads came loose. I peer up at the moth-like creature before me, bug eyes blinking as the head quirks slowly to one side. I smile.

"**What's the news, Nigul?"**

My Bro, never one to disappoint, stands up straight and tall and leads me out. He's lanky, even for a Luminoth, but it doesn't subtract from the fascinating alien beauty in his form. I've always wanted to be a Luminoth myself, ever since I was a kid. They have this weird quality in how they look and move that I could never get out of my head. From a young age, I was enthralled by them. Their grace, their technology, their intellect—everything about them is a testament to galactic history.

That's why I've been working my hardest to help restore their home planet.

My name is Riina Claes. I'm a Deep Space Restoration Seeker on the Aether Resurrection Project. Folks on the Colonies call us Seekers or Tech Hunters. Nigul is my partner: he's pretty young by Luminoth standards, but worlds wiser than any human, and a sucker for technology—_any_ technology. He loves the stuff. Give Nigul a broken contraption or five to work on, and he'll tinker with them until they work hundreds of times better than they could before. I met Nigul around six years ago; I was eighteen and Aether had just been cleared by the Federation as safe for surface landing. We bonded right away. He calls me Sibling; I call him Bro.

Still in my sleep top and underwear, I follow Nigul diligently to the helm of the ship, yawning and stretching the entire way. **"We're back in the Dasha System," **he reports, **"but just skirting the outside edge. We'll have to make a landing to refuel before we can make it back to Colony G-07."**

I yawn again. **"Got a lock on a docking bay?"**

Nigul graciously punches a few commands into the ship's navigation computer, and I take a quick glimpse at the span of stars and distant nebula clouds stretched out before us in soft colors. I manage a smile; _damn_, it feels good to be home!

"**Found one." **Nigul peers at the coordinates. **"The Kaon Colony's not far; perhaps twenty minutes at the pace we're going." **The leaf-like ears on his head flutter a bit and he turns to look down at me. **"It won't be the **_**nicest **_**colony we've visited, but our currency will trade and the docking bay is open."**

These days, no colony is a completely _nice_ colony. I don't pay attention to that. **"Then what are we waiting for? Set a course!"**

"**Yes, Sibling," **says Nigul. He leers at me and the leaf ears twitch. I know he's being sarcastic by the way his voice changes pitch as he speaks. I just grin at him and reach up to scratch the soft puff of white fur on his chest. Nigul trills appreciatively.

"**I'm going to get clean."**

"**There's food on the table," **he advises, fixing the ship's course for Kaon.

I promise him, **"After I get clean!"**

The _H.S. Victor_, our precious ship and Nigul's technological baby, is tailored to fit deep space exploration and retrieval. I mean, _all _ships can travel deep space nowadays, but this ship is more like a second home away from home. Bounty Hunters and other fellow travelers at least dock in several colonies during their travels—they don't find themselves living on rations and cryo-sleep for months at a time. Even with the hyper-drive, Nigul and I could spend a long time away from the safety of our colony in Aether's orbit. We were gone for almost a year one time hunting down this piece of Chozo Tech; it was absolutely _amazing, _but a real bitch to find. Someone found signs of some ancient Chozo ruins on one of the lesser-explored planets—Wanderer class, floating on the rim of the galaxy. The terrain was thick with alien flora that bled corrosive gel and the atmosphere was all but destroyed. I almost got inflicted with heat stroke a few times.

We actually risk our lives as Tech Hunters more often than people take our word for. Most of them would never believe the places where we find some of the stuff we do. Nigul and I have been to every class of planet imaginable, even a few high-ranked Wasteland ones—places where you'd think there'd be nothing but rock and acid rain. We've been to places where the Space Pirates were hiding out, conducting their little experiments. We've had to steal_ from_ Space Pirates before; _those _are the _fun _missions. Space Pirates are easy to piss off; thieves don't react well to being thieved. But hey, it's a give-and-take world, and right now, we're _giving _Aether everything we can _take._

Everyone is aware by now that, several years ago, Aether was struck by an extraterrestrial meteor—Federation calls it a "Leviathan" now—and what resulted afterwards sounds like something you'd only find in a science-fiction novel. Aether split in two, and a double-planet, a darker twin to Aether, began to orbit alongside it. These creatures called the Ing lived there, and unlike the Luminoth, they _loved_ a good fight. I was young when this happened and my colony was just skirting around Aether's orbit. We were keeping our distance because of the Ing; rumors went around (and they turned out to be true) that they were attacking nearby colonies to Aether as well as Aether itself. Things got so bad that the Luminoth went into cryogenic sleep until things could get better.

We have a Bounty Hunter named Samus Aran to thank for the kick-start in recovering Aether's lost glory.

I've never met her personally; but after I heard the name, I found out what I could about the woman who saved my Luminoth friends. It's not really hero worship, or anything; I don't worshipher. I _respect _her. She sounds like the most amazing woman to me, especially the way she's gone head-to-head with the Space Pirates so often. Samus must be one hardy bitch to take so much abuse and _keep coming back_ _for_ _more_. Her skills, as I've heard, are positively unrivaled; she's supposed to be the best of the best. And she put those skills to use saving Aether from certain destruction. I am in awe of that generosity, and immensely thankful she went through all the trouble. Without her efforts, I'm sure Aether and the Luminoth would have gone the way of the Chozo by now.

The Phazon threat on Aether has been gone since long ago, with thanks to a combination of Samus, the Galactic Federation, and—ironically enough—the Space Pirates, who swooped in and picked clean whatever the Federation had missed. After that, for a time, the Federation provided funding to allow us colony-folk to help the Luminoth rebuild their home. The Luminoth thanked us for our assistance, and we provided it in any and every way we could. For a while, the Federation continued their support for our cause—and we got pretty damn far on the progress of things!

But then they decided that the Luminoth were no longer their problem. They had bigger fish to fry and left us hanging when they cut the cash flow. Never explained why they did it—just withdrew their hand of influence and told us to "do what we do". Typical government behavior; get involved up until something looks dandy, then pull back and focus on another project.

Now, don't get me wrong, it's not like the Luminoth are _dependent _on the Federation; _or _the colonies. I have no doubt they would be able to restore Aether all by themselves if they were left alone about it. The Luminoth are awe-inspiring like that. But the process would be much slower. That's what we're here for: to speed up the recovery. Colony G-07 in particular—the colony headed by my old man—has great relations with the Luminoth, and has been putting out most of the effort recently. In fact, it was on _my_ colony where the Aether Resurrection Project sprung to life! With the help of local donations and contributions from other colonies, we started one of the largest and greatest Good Samaritan organizations in the known star systems.

The A.R.P. has two branches to it, and one of those branches has two more sub-divisions. The first branch is Base Recovery. The people in Base Recovery stay on Aether and in the colonies, helping the Luminoth rebuild their homes, reconstruct their tech and keep up with the well-being of the Luminoth and all those involved. The second branch is Space Retrieval, and those of us in Space Retrieval belong to one of two sub-divisions: the lesser-experienced people, limited either by lack of skill or just by choice, stay within the Dasha System gathering up regional materials to bring back to Aether for the recovery. We joke and call them the "In Crowd" sometimes, because they usually never leave the Dasha System.

And then there's the sub-division Nigul and I belong to, the Tech Hunters: _sometimes _made up of local folks, but all in all, comprised of outside help from skilled and willing Bounty Hunters who want to lend a hand (because we pay some damn good money for picking up pieces of tech). The reason being, simply, that Bounty Hunters have seen a lot more than the rest of us ever will. Applicants to our division have to take a Placement Exam to make sure everyone knows their stuff. Bounty Hunters usually pass with flying colors, but local folks are often put through some training courses first to make sure they know the "Four F's": Fight, Flight, Fetch, and Food. Know how to fight, when to run, how to get shit and how to ration. Because, let's face it: it would suck if you ate too much and found yourself stranded far from home with nothing to eat!

The item we just recently retrieved was way out on the outer rim of known space: a piece of strayed Luminoth tech that might allegedly help to improve the upkeep of Aether's Energy Controllers. It's a small box of a thing that's about the size of a portable freezer; I'm not sure what it does, and neither is Nigul; at least not completely. He wanted desperately to play with its insides and find out, but I reminded him that we aren't allowed to fiddle with any mission items. We don't want to unknowingly fuck up a perfectly useful piece of equipment.

Doesn't take me all that long to get clean, and once that's done, I just decide to dress up in a tank top, old Federation-issue jacket (my old man gave it to me once, and as much as we don't get along, I couldn't refuse), jeans and boots. My Celare Suit needs a good long break after all the trouble we went through for that little box. I'll let it get a breather until the next mission.

There's some fresh fruit on the table, just like Nigul promised: home-grown Aether jungle fruits that always taste like coconut and cinnamon. I grab one up and take a bite, joining Nigul at the controls. I lean back in the co-pilot seat and kick my feet up on the dash above the controls, sighing and gazing out at the stars with a wistful smile on my face.

"**Nothing better than the trip home, eh, **Bro**?"**

Nigul trills, steering the ship. A layered-on colony that I can only assume is Kaon drifts in front of our view, a growing dot on the horizon slowly turning into an actual formation. **"Nothing better," **he agrees. **"And please take your feet off of the controls."**

I grin wide at him, **"Can I finish my breakfast first?"**

"**Don't be spoiled," **Nigul complained, leaf ears flitting this way and that, **"I just fixed everything after the **_**last**_** weather disaster we had!"**

Obediently, I take my feet down and sit up, leaning forward as I take a bite out of the juicy violet fruit in my hand. I hold it out playfully to him. **"Want a bite?"**

"**I ate already, thank you."**

"**You got up so early?"** I frown.** "When I said 'wake me', I meant as soon as you were up—not after you ran through your morning routine!"**

Nigul squints at me, and I know he's trying to act wicked. I roll my eyes and whap him on one long arm. "Smart-ass…"

In heavily accented English, bass voice echoing from the hollow of his chest, Nigul replies: "It takes one to know one."

We start approaching the Kaon Colony, and we receive a transmission from their docking bay. The accent filtered on the translator makes me take a guess at some sort of reptilian species. _Unidentified spacecraft, you are approaching Kaon Colony docking space. Please transmit your identity and standby for further instruction._

Nigul opens up the transmission pad and I punch in the code. Twenty seconds go by; then a response.

_Hunter Ship Victor of the Aether Resurrection Project, welcome to the Kaon Colony. You are free for descent in Docking Bay A3. We are sending coordinates to you now. Please shut down all operating weaponry before docking and enjoy your stay._

I'm already wary about this colony as Nigul follows instructions and takes us to the docking bay. The place looks like it gets worse the lower you go, and the fact that Docking Control sent us the coordinates rather than escorting us there…not all colonies make it a courtesy to escort new ships into the docks, but I've noticed a pattern. The ones that send coordinates tend to have most of their hands busy with police work—which means a lot of crime—which means, I suppose, that we'll just have to watch our backs.

Bro apparently picked up on my concern; he's got three spindly fingers tugging lightly on my dreads within the moment as he pets my head. **"We'll make it a quick visit," **he promises. I nod my reply. Quick visits are good visits, especially in backwater colonies like this. I can't imagine why anyone would want to live here.


	4. Phaaze 04: Promises and Premises

Their stories start to merge together...

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**Phaaze 04: Promises and Premises**

Since Kaon is in a perpetual state of darkness, time is measured in "cycles". It basically translates into a day. The time still keeps the same on a twenty-four hour clock, so it's not like my circadian rhythm notices much difference. I'm used to the darkness of space.

According to the Kaon cycle, it's about 3:42 PM. I'm at an ATM machine on one of the Upper Levels accessing my account. It's a new one, separate from the one the Galactic Federation could access to pay me for my missions. I'm sure that if they saw I was still in business, they would want to question and investigate.

"_I put down payment on account," _Shield had told me. _"You go. See for yourself."_

Punching in the number of my account and checking my balance, I see that he's correct. And since Dasha Silver Pieces translate like royalty in Kaon, it's skyrocketed. The amount is staggering and for a moment I'm so happy I forget to breathe. I feel liberated. I haven't had this much cash on my hands in months.

I think I might be crying. Am I crying? Upon inspection, no…but I'm getting really choked up. Wouldn't _anyone,_ after they found out they'd just become rich overnight?

And it's even better because this is only _half _of what I'm expected to get. _Half!_ Shield, you magnificent bastard, I'd marry you if you weren't such a slime-ball.

Hands trembling, I make a hasty withdrawal. I know, I know, I'm bad—I shouldn't be dipping into the payment until _after _I've completed the mission—but I just can't help myself. If I take out just enough, maybe a few hundred Kaon Strips, I'll have enough to go to a _nice _place with _good _booze. Call it a special celebration, if you will; because, God damn it, I'm sick of being broke and bitter and hungry. I need a reason to smile. Good food and good wine—yes, wine, I've had enough of the shitty beer they have here—that'll definitely do the trick.

Three-hundred glorious, pale yellow Kaon Strips in a group of six bills spit out of the machine after I make my transaction. I hold them in my gloved hands like they're the most beautiful creations in this galaxy. The way I'm folding them up and putting them in my wallet, I must look pretty dismal, even a little insane…but I don't care. I can _pay _for things. I _am_ crazy…crazy with joy, that is!

Walking away from the ATM, I pull out a small communicator and dial up Shield's number, slotting it into my ear so I can listen and speak. Shield picks up right away, of course.

"Yessss?"

"Shield," I greet, "I believe you."

There's a brief pause where I can almost hear him smiling. "I knew you would," he purrs. "So, then…you do job?"

I'm still dizzy thinking about the precious money in my back pocket. "Absolutely," I breathe, mesmerized.

"Goooood," he coos at me like I'm a spoiled child, but it doesn't matter to me. "Bring box here by next cycle. Finish early, I give you rest of money in person. Good deal? Yes?"

"That won't be necessary," I say, smiling widely. "I'll get the job done. When you have your box, just put it on my account." I pause; then, I add: "What's the drop-off point?"

Shield falls silent, thinking about this for a moment, as I take a public elevator to one of the lower levels. Base-Upper 04 is just skimming the top of the Base Levels. It's not luxurious, but it'll definitely be much better than the slums. Best not to shoot too high—I don't want to fall too hard when I run low again.

"Sssssouth Dissstrict, Base 03," Shield hisses, "There sssmall unmarked building on corner of Qu'shen and Haalid. You meet there. Give box."

_South District, Base 03, Qu'shen and Haalid, unmarked building._ I commit it to memory. "Got it," I reply. "You'll have your box, Shield." I hang up, and the deal is sealed. I laugh. It feels alien to me; I haven't laughed in so long.

It's just a little bit brighter above the Base Levels, but not by much. Kaon is a sham of a colony, with just enough atmosphere to breathe and filter out all the bad stuff, but that's about it. The good news is that means the weather always stays relatively constant; except the "summer" periods when Kaon's atmospheric generators routinely decide to break down and up the humidity and heat (nobody has bothered to fix them yet, and I don't think anybody wants to). However, it also means your vision can decline fast if you're re-exposed to areas with lots of light. BU-04, the go-between of the Base and Upper Levels, is usually lit up by bioluminescent plants, either gathered from exotic planets or home-grown in one of Kaon's minimal engineering laboratories. It's actually quite gorgeous, especially the ones that make color. Sometimes the more important streets are color-coded and you can tell where you are by the shade of the trees.

Walking through the streets, searching for a good bar, the trees and the brush around their trunks sway in a non-existent wind, winking their illumination on and off in hypnotic patterns. Eventually, after some searching, I find a low-profile place that seems calming enough and slink inside. Not looking for anything besides a little something, I take up a stool at the island bar I find in the middle of the place. It's a nice atmosphere, with dimmed-down lights and a relatively well-to-do crowd; people of all race and species are gathered around at varying glass and metal tables and a species of reptilian aliens are scuffling about, serving drinks and food. Off-beat but pleasant music trickles out of the speakers in the ceiling and the bar itself is lit up under the glass countertop by more of those bioluminescent plants, arranged by color in streaks of rainbow.

The bartender himself fits perfectly with all of this illuminating material; his "hair" is a constantly flickering blue fire and his body is translucent, made of deep blues and bright violets. He reminds me of Gandrayda. It's possible they could be the same species.

"Afternoon, ma'am," says the bartender politely, smiling at me. "What'll it be?"

I stop for a moment, thinking. My eyes examine the lovely architecture on the ceiling while I do. "How much for your best wine?"

The bartender shouts to one of his attendants in a language I'm not familiar with. The reptilian hisses and snickers back at him. He turns to face me, all charm and smiles again. "Our best bottle is a special Phrygisian vintage, blended with Bes III ice crystals and flavored with top-grade Norion grapes. This particular blend is given a crisp edge and kept cold by the crystals and has aged about thirty of your human years. It'll cost you 289 Kaon Strips."

"I'll have that," I reply, not even hesitating. If I'm lucky enough to pay for it, I might as well.

"Anything else?" he asks.

I shrug. "A bread basket and some oil for dipping," I answer.

"That sums up to 294 Strips."

Not breaking the flow, I pull out my wallet and slap down my fresh yellow darlings. It's not normally smart to flash your cash around here, but I'm so thirsty for a good meal that I don't care. The bartender gives me an odd look, but takes the money with a generous smile. "Your wine and bread will be a moment, madam."

I nod at him, thank him, and he goes off. Sitting in silence, I drum my fingers on the glass and stare at my reflection on the flawless surface, my skin glowing a pale color because of the luminescent plants. When I catch sight of myself, I smile wide, trying on the face of happiness. I decide that it looks good on me.

Soft music dripping down from the ceiling and chatter of all languages swirling around me, I'm overjoyed when the bartender returns, setting down in front of me a basket of assorted bread slices and a small dipping plate with a thick greenish-blue oil. I recognize it as something from Aether. That means it looks disgusting but tastes like bliss. The bartender shifts the shape of his hand and easily does away with the cork on the wine bottle, which is a rich green color with a bright blue Phrygisian label. When the cork pops off, cold steam immediately spills off the lip of the opening, making my eyes glisten. The bartender sets down a lovely spiral-imprinted wine glass and pours a sample's worth.

"Here you are, madam," he says, gesturing to the blush-colored liquid in my glass.

I reach out and take the glass by the stem and swirl the liquid a little, examining the pinkish color. It's not because I'm a wine expert or anything; I'm just admiring the fact that this looks absolutely _delicious _and I could _afford _it for once. There's a faint blue shimmer to the liquid and cold steam breathes upon the inside edges of the glass.

Lifting it, I press my lips to the edge and slowly take a sip.

_Oh God, it tastes so fucking sweet._ It's heaven in a bottle! None can dispute this. Frigid temperature, godly smoothness, light, crisp taste…like roses and winter…seriously! I'm not usually this poetic. It's the only way I can describe it. It's so _good._

Apparently, my awe over the liquid is showing, because the bartender flashes me another charming smile. "Is it to your satisfaction, madam?"

"_Yes_," I reply. I set my glass down and he fills it half-full, and he's about to walk away with that bottle of love and bliss when I hold up my hand. "No no! Leave the bottle. Please." I wonder if he could hear the elated desperation in my voice.

He doesn't argue, only chuckles and sets the bottle gingerly down on the countertop. "As you wish, ma'am—enjoy."

Oh, I definitely enjoy. I enjoy it so much, in fact, that I don't realize I've sped through my first glass until I lift it to take a sip two minutes later and find it completely empty, along with my first slice of bread being half-eaten and tasting of cream and coconuts when I soak it in the oil. Blushing, I shyly refill my glass, wondering if anyone saw me. When it's full this time, I take it slow, savoring each crisp, heavenly sip. Nothing exists now but me and this divine meal. I forget about my Metroid DNA and my deformed arm; I forget about Shield, his ridiculous job, my bitter struggle with poverty and my ever-present fatigue. Because none of it matters when I have a bottle of vintage Phrygisian wine and the most delicious bread I've tasted in what feels like eons.

I zone out with the meal in front of me and become enamored with every bite, every sip; every minute that ticks by where I'm sitting here with my little celebration of being not-poor. I don't recall the bartender asking me if I want my change back, but it doesn't matter. He can keep the whole 300, for all I care. At this moment in time, I'm the happiest woman in the world and would have no regrets if I dropped dead right now on the floor of the restaurant. Yes—that's how happy I am.

So into my godly little slice of heaven am I that it takes me three-quarters of a bottle to become interested in the smooth, ancient alien tongue being spoken right next to me. I have no idea how long it carried on without my noticing, and I can only pick up on pieces of the conversation. It's a language I've heard before, but only a few notable times when outside of my suit and its universal translator.

"**That was…it's like…no time at all…then…done with…out of here, right, **Bro**?"**

The single English-spoken word is jarring on the alien rhythm of the speech, but still seems rightly placed somehow. After a moment of thought I peer over and take a look at the two speakers.

I realize then that it was the short woman beside me who was speaking first, as fluently as if she'd been born on the planet where it came from. She has dark caramel skin and an oval-shaped face and thick, short hair that's a mess of half-straight spirals with some beaded dreads scattered throughout the mass of it. She's smiling wide at her companion with bright green eyes. She stands out, to be sure; but it's her partner I quickly grow more interested in. A tall and gangly figure, perfectly shaped and glowing dim red in some places on his armor, leaf-like ears on his head and thin, elegant wings protruding from the top of his back.

I'm immediately intrigued. What in all the galaxies is a _Luminoth_ doing all the way out here?

Taking a few more sips of my wine, I force myself not to stare, but try to listen in on their conversation. I can't pick up on very much. I can speak Chozo very well, but only on a few occasions have I met the Luminoth, even during my childhood when they were still trading pieces of technology. I'm not entirely helpless—Luminoth and Chozo tongue are remarkably similar—but with the loss of the Chozo, plus the number of years that have passed, the vocabulary has expanded in some places and shrunk in others. The structure has also changed a bit.

Listening in, I manage to grasp a few important notes about Aether; something about a…Restoration…Resurrection? And I also hear about some piece of technology and discussion of "home" and "the next job". The first two tidbits make sense immediately. I remember all too well the state Aether was in the last time I visited it; I'm not surprised it's still under the veil of recovery. The rest of it makes them sound like Bounty Hunters of a fashion; but I'm not sure if they are or not. It's very rare that Bounty Hunters are set after _objects_ instead of _people._ (Consequently, the personal irony of this thought does not escape me in the least.)

The Luminoth ends up getting a tall, thin glass filled with a thick reddish liquid, which he begins to down heartily. The human girl who is his comrade starts to make short work of a pint of dark beer. I'm hearing very little of importance now, so I start to mind my own business again, eating another tasty roll from my bread basket.

I don't pay attention again until the woman sitting beside me gives me a nudge. "'Scuse me!" she says, and I blink at her, caught mid-sip with my wine. She smiles lightly at me. "Do you know where we can get some supplies around here? Food, fuel…?"

Examining her and her Luminoth friend, I give a frown. "Kaon isn't the best place to do business exchanges."

"Yeah, we get that," the woman replies dismissively, "We'll watch out for any con artists. We just need some fuel for our ship and a little food to take with us on the way to Aether."

I don't think she quite understands. Kaon cheats you no matter where you go. It's impossible to find a good deal, either on the Upper or the Base Levels. I don't particularly like the idea of Kaon taking advantage of a non-resident human and a Luminoth. "I'd advise you to look someplace else," I say honestly, sipping my wine.

"Can't," the woman frowns, "We don't have enough fuel. The only reason my friend and I," she gestures to the Luminoth, "are here is an emergency landing for supplies. Can you help us out or not?"

Awfully stubborn little woman…sighing, I set my wine glass down and think for a moment. "Lady?" she presses, urging me to hurry up. I still her by holding up a hand and consider the options, trying to think of the least sleazy supply store I know of. After a very serious debate between my choices, I find one.

"There's a small store on UL-03 in the West District called Kasha's Market. It's got everything you'll need. But watch out for the dealer. He's an old war veteran of some sort and drives a hard bargain. Whatever he offers you, it'll always be too high. Haggle hard and don't pay him in GF currency. My guess is if you talk Dasha Silver, he'll roll over like a puppy."

"Kasha's Market, Upper 03, West District, offer Dasha Silver; got it," she grins, "Thanks, it's a really big help!"

I go back to my wine, shrugging it off. I actually feel bad for pointing them to _any _business in Kaon—here, no business is good business.

On the other hand, this gives me a good opportunity to find out more about them. "So what's a Luminoth doing so far away from Aether?" I ask.

The Luminoth gives a low, thrumming trill and quirks his leaf-like ears forward. "On a mission," he says. His voice is a bass rumble with a thick-tongued accent.

"What sort of mission?" I wonder, glancing over at them both. The woman seems more than happy enough to answer that one.

"We're part of the A.R.P.—the Aether Resurrection Project. It's an ongoing effort of the colonies orbiting the Luminoth home world to bring it back to its previous state of beauty."

An effort of the colonies…? Last time I heard, the _Federation_ was funding Aether's restoration. Lines crease down the middle of my brow as I pull it tight. "What happened to the Galactic Federation?"

The woman goes sour. "Bastards dropped us off the roster years ago; halted the cash flow. I guess the Luminoth stopped being important to them somewhere along the line."

Can't say I'm surprised. It sounds just like something the Federation would do. Changing the subject, I continue, meeting eyes with the woman, "So what's your job on this Project? Where do you and your friend fit?"

"We're Tech Hunters!" she answers, grinning wide. "Nigul and I travel the depth and breadth of space looking for lost Chozo and Luminoth tech to help speed up the rebuilding and maintain the upkeep…oh, this is Nigul," she thumbs off-handedly to the Luminoth beside her, who gives a polite nod. I nod back. "And I'm Riina," the woman introduces herself, all smiles and sunshine, and extends her left hand for a shake. "You are…?"

To begin with, I'm not used to such a cheery demeanor after being lost in the glum of dirt-poor paucity, so for that reason alone I find her attitude jarring in high doses. Secondly, she extended her left hand, needlessly reminding me of my deformity. She means nothing by it, I know—but I still take it that way, and I get bitter. Pointedly, I ignore the handshake and sip my wine, trying my best to forget that particular problem. "Oh, I'm nobody." Trying to throw off the spotlight—I don't like talking about myself.

She doesn't seem satisfied with the answer. Her face falls and she tries again. "You've gotta be somebody," she insists. "Come on, we're all friends, here—just a couple of pretty ladies and a big moth man having drinks on a low-budget colony." She's smiling again, flashing rows of white teeth. "Why not get some names?"

"I'm not very social," I clip, not looking at her anymore. I hope the excuse is enough to snuff her curiosity.

Apparently, it isn't.

"Well, there's a first time for everything!" she cries. Ugh…there's no first time for _this_. My right hand and left eye twitch in unison and I focus on my wine.

"If you don't _mind_," I growl, getting more irritated.

She ignores me. "Just your name—that's all I'll ask for. Give me that, and I'll leave you alone."

There's no _way_ she'd leave me alone if she knew my name. But she's not going to sit here and leave me in peace, either. The joy of my wonderful meal is ruined now, and I'm feeling acidic. She's just like a Metroid…doesn't know when to quit.

I see now there's only one path out of this mess, so I take it. I finish the last of my bread and chug whatever's left in my wine glass, destroying the beautiful flavor of the wine as I set the glass down and push off, brushing the crumbs off my gloves. I stand.

"It's Samus."

I make the mistake of turning my head to see her reaction. I'm not sure what possessed me to do it. It's been so long since I've spoken my own name, one would wonder why I'm not in awe of it myself. Maybe I'm feeling especially smug because of the down payment Shield put on my Fetcher; or maybe I'm just wondering if that was sufficient enough to shut her up.

What I see staring back at me is a look of pure wonder, green gold-flecked eyes wide, jaw hanging open. I can't read her Luminoth friend. He just gazes on, looking contemplative. His only visible response is to flick the very edges of his wings. I'm surprised that I can still garner this reaction out of people…it's a bittersweet sort of moment.

"…Hold on," she says, reeling now. "You're—Samus Aran? _The _Samus Aran?"

I turn my head; swivel on my heel towards the exit. "Good luck with your ship," I say. It's the only thing I can think of, and I might not have even said it very nicely. I don't really care. I head out, making a mental note to go straight to my Fusion Suit, and then to my ship. I don't want to be here anymore. I want to get my mind off of things.

The woman shouts after me. I ignore her.

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"Hey, wait a minute!"

Nigul is the only thing stopping me from jumping off my seat and following her out. He grabs my arm and gently guides me back down while I gawk at the _living legend_ _walking away from us._

"Let her be," Nigul rumbles. "She is in a bad mood."

"She says she's Samus," I mutter, blinking profusely.

"Yes, I heard her."

"She says she's Samus." It seems to be the only thing I can say.

"I know," Nigul repeats. "Shocking, isn't it?"

I'm still gathering my thoughts. If that was really Samus Aran—then _she _was the one to save the Luminoth. _She's _the one we have to thank for giving us a chance to start this Project. _She _jump-started it all. That legend walking out the restaurant door was Samus Aran.

But when the awe wears off, I find myself frowning, wrinkling my nose in concern. It takes me a moment to discover that the new emotion I'm feeling is disappointment.

She isn't how I pictured her to be. She was bitter and snippy and looked like she hadn't slept well in a long while. She was _young,_ too—I don't know, I always thought a Bounty Hunter with so much experience would be a little further along in life. But this didn't seem to be the case.

Another thing that gets me is this: what kind of business does a woman like Samus have in such a shitty colony?

"**Come on, Riina," **Nigul coaxes, nudging my shoulder. **"Finish your drink and let's go. We don't want to linger."**

I can't disagree with that. But I can't help but wonder, as I bring the frothy liquid to my lips, if maybe I could convince Nigul to stay a little longer—so that I might be able to ask around on Samus and her whereabouts. Because I could've _sworn_ she was still the best Bounty Hunter card in the hand of the Federation.

When the Federation pays, they pay _well. _A Hunter working for _them _wouldn't be caught dead scraping leftovers in a place like this.


	5. Phaaze 05: Fetcher, I

It's mission time!

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**Phaaze 05: Fetcher (Part 1)**

Samus had been right about the dealer driving a hard bargain. Kasha pestered us for high prices until we began haggling Dasha Silver—even that was a problem, because we didn't have any _on _us, exactly…folks in these parts prefer to take your pay on the spot rather than waiting to be potentially cheated. It took Nigul and me forever to finally settle with paying him later. That sleazy reptile only began to relent when we mentioned our trade job. Although Nigul and I spend most of our time Tech Hunting, Bounty Hunting often comes into the mix as well—most of the Deep Space Seekers are veteran Hunters, after all. Kasha apparently dealt with a couple of them before, and one in particular made for a really good customer.

"Which Hunter is that?" I inquired innocently at the time.

I got an answer that I was both expecting and not. "Samussss Aran; good Hunter; good sssource of income."

Thankfully, one thing led to another, and we finally found ourselves leaving with enough fuel to take us to G-07; and a curious piece of information that had the wheels turning in my head. I'm not sure how much Nigul could tell I was thinking about it, but if he noticed, he kept quiet. We were on an elevator to the highest level where our ship was in the docks before I brought it up vocally.

"Why would Samus be doing business in a place like this?"

Nigul shrugged. "Maybe something went wrong. Happens all the time with Hunters, no?"

I suppose that's true, but I'm still not ready to believe it. Maybe Samus isn't immune to scraping the dregs like the rest of us—but she's still the _last _Hunter I would expect to see having fallen from grace. Attempting not to peer at a situation through rose-colored lenses is difficult when it entails the legendary figure that you essentially have to thank (at least partially) for the recovery of an entire species. When a person does something as phenomenal as that, you generally tend to have expectations. Unrealistic ones, maybe; you keep forgetting that these people are only mortals made mythical. The stories one hears about Samus range from the believable to the outrageously insane.

"Time…changes people," I finally admit.

Nigul trills low in agreement.

Conclusively, I still don't have enough information about Samus' situation, and we don't have the time I would like to hang around and dig. I tried bargaining it with Nigul, and he consciously reminded me of our tight schedule. I guess I could've had some better luck there. But in truth, I do have to confess that it's hardly my business—I am not in any way personally associated with her, and given some of the stories looming over her track record, it might be wise not to get too entangled.

On top of that, carrying these fuel rations is proving to be a bitch.

"**My arms hurt," **I complain, shifting the three gallons of fuel I'm carrying in my arms in two separate containers.

Pointedly, Nigul sways his long arms, where he's carrying about as much as I am. **"So do mine. We're almost to the ship, though; no complaints."**

The _Victor _is a bit of a walk away to Bay A3 at the docks. He's easy to spot, however, and I'm eager to get back to him. On the outside, _Victor _appears to be entirely of Luminoth design: slim, long build, red lines of energy crawling over his underbelly in simple-intricate patterns, technology ancient but effective and working like a charm. Sift through his innards, however, and you find a rampant hybrid of technology. In truth, _Victor _is in desperate need of some upgrades, even with the Luminoth technology. We can't always afford these upgrades, however—so Nigul takes them as they come, and has been gradually reformatting the ship's make to improve its performance. That's why I say it's his technological baby. Nigul fawns over our ship quite a bit; as if he really were the _Victor's _father.

Upon arrival, we discover that our ship sticks out from the crowd a little more than might be considered fortunate.

Standing in front of _Victor _are five uniformed Kaon residents—police, by the looks of them. They're some more of those reptilian looking creatures, though these ones are a bit more humanoid. They can stand more upright and their legs aren't quite as bow-legged. They're all armed, of course, although Nigul and I are both wearing the same clueless expressions as we approach the _Victor, _preparing to board.

"Gentlemen…" (Because I assume they're all men,) "…Is there a problem here?"

They don't answer my question. The gruffest-looking one, puffed up with a row of scales down his spine, approaches and gives a hiss, trying to intimidate me. The rest of them sort of hang back, giving us expectant leers. "Are you Bounty Hunterssss?"

Nigul flicks his wings and I quirk a brow. "…Yes, we are, why?"

The Big Boss of the group hisses again. "We would like to dissscussss a businessss arrangement before you leave," he explains.

They want a job? "What sort of business arrangement?" I ask. I jostle the fuel. "And please be brief, these tanks are heavy."

Big Boss narrows his sickly yellow eyes and sneers some orders to his colleagues, who come and take the weight off our hands to transfer it to the _Victor _before we can protest. Damn, they must really want us for something—residents here have so far been less than helpful, so far as we've observed. Curious now, I shake out the ache in my arms and cross them over my chest, looking back to the leader.

"I am Captain Thorn of the KCPD," he hisses. "I and my comradessss have a very well-paying job for you that would help to ensure the sssafety of this colony."

"Oh, really…?" Not that this colony looks like it's ever completely safe. I knit my brow down the middle skeptically and my hands move to my hips instead. "What's the case, and what's the charge?"

Captain Thorn straightens and makes a rumbling sound from low in his throat, voice raspy and thin. "Early thissss morning we received a transmission from a very…_elussssive_ Kriken criminal. He hired a Bounty Hunter to take care of a pick-up for his _merchandissse_…a sssmall box of ssssome sort. But he paid an unusually large sssum of money for it…"

"And…?" I lift my head a bit, exchanging glances with Nigul.

"…Judging by the money the Kriken paid, we believe thisss…_box_ may contain sssomething that will endanger the colony. And we cannot allow it to fall into criminal handssss. We are paying you and your moth friend to retrieve it for ussss;" here, Thorn gives a split-faced smile that has me not quite trusting him all the way, "Sssso that we might _properly _take care of itssss contentssss."

I don't answer right away. Thorn and I have a staring contest, and he whips his noodle-thin tail around impatiently, waiting for me to respond. I murmur to Nigul beside me in Luminoth. **"Can we trust him?"**

"**Honestly? No."**

"_**Should **_**we trust him?"**

"**I believe that is another **_**no**_**." **Nigul quirks his wings, **"But some extra money wouldn't hurt, Riina. It seems like a simple interception job to me. Keep the competition from getting the goods; bring them back to the employer."**

I grin, **"And retrieval is what we do best."**

"**Precisely," **Nigul purrs.

Thorn growls at us both, "If you're finished counsssseling with your pet moth—"

"First of all, _Captain,_" I say in warning, holding his gaze, "His name is _Nigul; _and he is not my pet, he is my _partner. _So if you want us to take this job, I would ask that you please treat him with the respect he _deserves._ Also…" I rub my fingers together, holding them between us at eye level. "We're some of the best retrievers in this quadrant—so I hope you've got the right _price _to pay for our services."

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Shit, if they're paying us 25 Grand in DSP, that box had better have some valuable treasure.

Suiting up in the Celare is routine for me by now, and on top of that, I _love_ getting a chance to slip into it whenever I'm out on a mission. This suit was tailored from the top down by the Luminoth themselves, specialized for covert sneak-around missions that need you to get in and out of places with maximum speed and minimum mess. It's sleek and relatively plain-looking on the outside—which is the whole point. It's a work of art to me, though; just for fun, when the Luminoth were making this for me, I asked them to make it so that _I _would look like a Luminoth. So, the earthen browns and glowing red energy lines are exactly similar to Luminoth armor and skin, and it even has the leaf-ears on the helmet, which have extra audio technology laced into them to boost my hearing capabilities.

It can't hold a candle to the _natural_ beauty of the Luminoth, but it comes damn near it, even for being a mock-up with human curves.

Helmet goes on last. Nigul is piloting our recently-refueled _Victor _and we've left the Kaon Colony, for now. About 30 minutes ago, Nigul picked up on a passing ship signal and confirmed it to be Samus Aran's. So we've been tailing her to the destination in cloaked radio silence since finding her—since Captain Thorn informed us she was the receiving end of the call in question. I spent the first 20 minutes meditating and the last ten getting ready for the possibility of going head-to-head with her, if something goes wrong.

I never imagined that I'd be meeting Samus under such desperate pretenses. It still bugs me that I don't know why she's this way now—did she botch a mission? Screw with the wrong people? Screw with the _right _people? Anything could have happened, although the more I ponder it, the crazier the theories become. Maybe I'm over-thinking it. Maybe this is just something so absurdly simple that I'm a certified idiot for missing it. Either way, I'm disappointed that I might meet her again as an opponent instead of a friend.

"**Almost there, Nigul?"**

"**Just about…she pinpointed the exact meeting place about eight minutes ago."**

I lean over the dash, watching as Samus' ship begins to circle for a landing in a small floating scrap yard, piled high with junk and littered with smelting pools where everything is gathered up and liquefied to slag. The smelting pools give the place an eerie orange glow; it's like a space graveyard for technology.

"**Any idea who we're intercepting the goods from besides Samus?"**

"**Too easy," **Nigul complained. **"Her ship is too outdated and trashed to even come **_**close**_** to picking up our transmission hack."**

I frown at the jab to Samus' ship. True, it's a pretty old method of travel by now—it's just one more reminder that she's not as well off as she once was. Evidence, perhaps, that she can't afford a newer model (for starters). **"Anyway," **I prompted, **"Who's the giver to Samus' receiving?"**

"**A Thule named Caa'eln," **replied Nigul. **"A very shady character; he's been involved with a lot of underground business nowadays. My advice would be to exercise caution. The Thule species doesn't need weapons to be dangerous."**

A slight nod is my only response. The Thule is an odd hodgepodge sort of alien species, dubbed so because of their resemblance to nightmarish creatures from a very old story about the end of the world. They are often difficult and frightening to describe and the most challenging species to classify; they branch off into different species types that number well into the hundreds. It's very rare to run into a Thule out in the open; they prefer to take their prey from the shadows. Thule species often drift through space at random, usually becoming Space Pirates or low-end workers filching off of crappy jobs because there's something valuable to them attached to the labor. No one quite knows where they originated from; few often live to share their stories.

Circling just on the rim of the junk yard, Nigul opens up the elevator on the belly of the ship. There's just enough atmosphere to create an air current, our ship hovering between bare-minimum life support and the deep vacuum of space. **"This is your drop, Riina. Look for a large spider-like creature with a humanoid face. That's Caa'eln. The exchange has been scheduled to take place on a catwalk mid-way between where Samus lands her ship and where our Thule friend stored the goods."**

"**Got it," **I reply, though I have to shout over the rush of the wind as I drop onto the elevator. Nigul puts the ship on auto-pilot long enough to peer down at me as I look up.

"**You won't be able to take the goods away from Caa'eln without making a distraction and snatching them directly," **Nigul calls back. **"Be **_**careful, **_**Riina."**

He can't see me grinning under my helmet, but I give him a wave.

"**My middle name!"** I declare, and that being said, I let the minimal gravity drag me down through necessary atmosphere. I freefall, arms spread, plummeting to the ground, and for a moment the rush of wind around me lets me feel like I'm flying. I count in my head. _Four…three…two…one…_

At that moment, I activate a button on the back of my suit, just below my neck, flipping in mid-air to face my back to the metal earth below. The soundless air pack on my back kicks to life and warmth spreads through my spine as it manipulates the current and particles in the air to soften my landing. It allows me to levitate—and, for brief periods, float, if I have to—about three minutes is my record without it sputtering from overuse.

Using this method, I'm able to make a softer landing when I end up in a mountain of scrap metal and spare parts. Not exactly smooth, but better than crashing to my death. The suit's stealth cloak and radar scrambler are turned on as I come out—no one would see the reason behind the scraps falling down the pile, and if any locating systems happened to be in operation, all they would find is a rebounded echo of empty space. I am now, for all intents and purposes, completely invisible.

In other words, nary but a shadow!

And now, as I sniff out my target, I play the waiting game.

Crawling through this mess is easier said than done, especially since half the ground I walk on is covered in glass, sharpened pieces of metal and other such knick-knacks—things that _crunch_—and that is very bad for the whole "stealth" part of the operation. Not to mention murder on my grav-boots. Ultimately, I end up finding the nearest catwalk I can and hitching a ride on its support beams. If I were visible, the soles of my boots would have a slight glow to them; but right now, as far as anyone's concerned, there's just a discolored patch of paint on the poles. Any workers hanging around don't even bother to note how it seems to be jumping from pole to pole, catwalk to catwalk.

Walking the beams and supports makes navigation and searching easier, and rewards me at last when a skittering noise reaches my audios. Turning my head to have the suit better pinpoint its location, I find it: the rapid, light-footed scratching of a spider's walk on metal. But this spider is not a tiny spider, it's a big one; and it seems to be in a rush. Or maybe that's just the way it's walking. There's also a nasty wheezing sound. Has to be Caa'eln—and he's just due south of my position. South it is!

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Every bone in my body tells me that something isn't right.

When something isn't right, I get tense. I'm as alert as I could ever be, eyes shifting, stance disturbingly still. What's wrong with this picture? My eyes and ears say "absolutely nothing." My heart and gut tell me "definitely something." They also say "don't trust your eyes and ears, because you _know _how they _love _to lie to you."

It's not because I'm in Federation territory. Okay, maybe it is, a little bit. But it's not the full reason why I'm so damn nervous right now. Something just feels _off. _The minimal air in the atmosphere swirls softly over my armor in a breeze I can't even feel, but I power up my cannon to fire anyway, twisting about-face; energy coursing through my weapon, aimed at my ship.

Not even a leaf.

Christ, I shouldn't be here in this state.

The pessimism hits full force even while I purposefully subject myself to standing still and meditating. Something will happen. For better or for worse, something will happen.

I try not to think about it.

Breathe, Samus. Clear your head. Just…breathe.

_Breathe._

The world blanks out around me; soon I'm feeling much better. Alert, but not tense. Ready and relaxed. Calm…composed. How I _should _be.

Luckily, it's about that time when I see an ominous black spider-figure approaching me. (I didn't even notice the time passing by…) He skitters over the catwalk, stick-thin black legs making scratches in the metal. The thing stands at least seven or eight feet the way he is now, coughing into a three-pronged hand and wheezing thickly. Extending from his fat black abdomen is a giraffe-like neck covered to the teeth in oil-slick armor, and at the end of that neck, a deformed, monstrous sort of human face. It's the only part of Caa'eln's body that's white as paste. His eyes, however, are as black as the rest of him: four sightless holes in his skull, two slits in the very center of his face for a nose, and a mouth that peels open like a melted marshmallow when he speaks.

His language is a broken, jumbled mess, and my translator can only get a few words out of it. "Samus," "Shield," "Box." I nod for a confirmation, glancing nervously to the dark-blue briefcase in his hands. (It's not a box. Shield said it would be a box. Technically, briefcases aren't boxes, I don't think.)

Caa'eln hisses—I seem to be getting a lot of hissing lately—and clutches the briefcase beneath his long neck, leering down at me with it. I am unafraid to admit that the gesture is somewhat disturbing. "Pay," is the word I get through the translator.

My mood tanks at that. "Shield didn't say anything about—"

Caa'eln screeches like an unholy thing. _"Pay!"_ gargles the translator.

Everyone wants to be a sleaze today…argh! I have no patience for this! Restraining every tendon in my frame, I meet the Thule's chilling glare. "Shield will pay," I tell him. What this guy wants is none of my business. I just need that briefcase and I need to get the hell out of here.

He isn't convinced, apparently. "Shield?" he sneers. "Transfer?"

"Yes," I growl, temper barely in check. My right arm twitches, and thus, so does the cannon.

"Lying!" Caa'eln just about snaps at me and skitters backward. "Shield no money!"

_Damn_ it, this thing is persistent. Growling, I raise up my hands. "Alright, alright…" I look at him, "…I'll pay." He eases up at that, starts to wheeze and cough as he moves forward again. I hold out my left hand. "But you give me the briefcase first."

He snatches it back against him, snarling.

I might not be thinking straight at this point in time—all I want is to get out of here with my prize and go home with the money I need to survive. "I'm Samus Aran," I state simply, knowing that name still holds a lot of power. "I'm a Hunter of my word. Give _me_ the briefcase and I will give _you_ your money."

Something taps the metal and it's not Caa'eln's feet. It takes all the willpower I have not to jerk my head, simply to scan with my eyes. I still see nothing in plain sight, but I know I heard something. My gut instinct acts up again, tells me that something is about to happen. In the meanwhile, my stubborn client is shuffling around hesitantly, moving his head in long swaying motions, trying to see if I'm telling the truth. He's wasting precious time; I shake my hand a bit where it's extended to show I want him to hurry.

"The briefcase," I prompt him.

I don't even have time to see any sort of reaction from him before something round flies up and drops, snapping to the metal between us on the ground. I look down long enough to register blinking green lights rapidly flashing to red.

Before the light blinds me, the only thing I can think is, _Shit!_

The world bleaches to the color of stars in space and I can hear the Thule screeching in horrible agony. Light-sensitive, I would gather. I register a whoosh of air and peel my eyes open with poster-color spots still peppering my eyelids to see the flash of a small darkish figure. I still can't see straight because of the flash grenade, but it doesn't stop me from shooting at the darting shadow dancing across my field of vision.

My arm drinks up on pieces of the energy roiling through my cannon with each shot. It disorients me further, makes me irritated with myself and breaks my focus. I try to ignore it, spacing my shots so my trigger finger doesn't get too itchy. It's more difficult than it sounds.

Caa'eln is screaming something and swiping blindly around him, and I don't realize it until he's sliced open a piece of the shoulder in my suit. I clear a wide berth to allow him his space to act like a bumbling fool. When my vision clears up, I have a better idea of what's going on, but the first thing I see is Caa'eln. He's spitting corrosive silk from his mouth and cutting the ends with his teeth to start each spin anew. He's melting the catwalk. I can feel it shaking where it's starting to give—like everything else in this junk yard, the surface I'm standing on amounts to one big, steaming pile of crap.

"Stop that, you idiot!" I cry. It's a sizable drop to the jagged scraps below, and I don't look forward to a fall like that. I manage to catch a flash of something out of the corner of my visor and I snap my head around, cannon raised.

An earth-brown figure alight with red energy lines is balanced on the railing of the catwalk like a gymnast, legs split from front to back, the boots glowing faintly. On the bottom of one is the briefcase. The figure rolls off the railing with a kick of its legs and lands on the catwalk, picking the briefcase up in hand. Then it catches sight of what Caa'eln is doing, and promptly leaps backwards off of the surface.

It's hard not to be pissed off when you've just been swindled out of your one and only ticket to a few months of precious, livable peace.

Also, the ground just gave out beneath me.


	6. Phaaze 06: Fetcher, II

College life is now eating up most of my writing activity, but here's another chapter anyway! This one was difficult to write. Ace had to assist with fight choreography.

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**Phaaze 06: Fetcher (Part 2)**

I was distracted. It's the only excuse I can manage. I was distracted by the bastard that swiped my prize, and I didn't get off the bridge in time. Now I'm here, tumbling through half-melted metal with Caa'eln a few feet from me, suffering the same fate.

I catch myself on my feet in time, luckily. Impressive for a ten-foot fall, though it stings a little; the Thule isn't so lucky. I can hear his armor getting scraped and sliced by scrap metal upon roughly landing on top of the rest of the junk around here.

I'm seeing red through the blue of my visor. _Where is he? _Where's the Hunter that took my quarry?

A figure flashes through my vision to the left as I hurry out from under the collapsing bridge overhead, and I snap to it. There he is—running away, with briefcase in hand!

Not today. I take chase.

There's a faint glow to the bottom of his boots and he's taking shortcuts on support beams and the thick red metal of the smelting pits. Running along the walls and climbing his way up. Gravity boots—whoop-dee-doo for me—he can walk on walls, and I can't. But who says that makes it impossible to catch up?

Stopping and tracking his movements, I scan the area while workers stare awkwardly behind me in bewilderment of the melted catwalk, looking between me and Caa'eln, who is furious and writhing in pain. I can't take accurate shots at him from this distance, but I have to stop him somehow, or else Shield's payment won't be completed. I will _not _have scrounged this deep into Federation territory just to miss out on my biggest payment in months!

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I shouldn't be feeling _guilty_. Why do I feel like I want to kick myself in the head for intercepting this trade?

Either way, Samus hasn't chased me since I switched to running on walls and smelting pits, so it should be easy enough to take the quarry back to Nigul. I flip the radio switch for a quick transmission. "Nigul, the fish is in the net. What's our point of rendezvous?"

His voice filters back through the line, "North sector of the junk yard by the S-01 smelting pit. I will be there in three."

Still not feeling fantastic about this catch; nevertheless, "Fine…I'll be there in five or less." And that's the end of that, radio switching off as I veer north on one of the catwalks. Workers bustle aside and scream at me; I'm not focused enough on them to care. I'm in too much of a hurry to leave—maybe by the time I reach the ship, the bad feeling settling in my gut will vanish and I'll be right as rain. People and heat blur past me, giant steaming vats of liquefied metal popping and gurgling in the smelting pits scattered every two-hundred yards or so. It's a hell I suddenly have this desperate urge to escape from and I can't wait to be back with Nigul and the _Victor._

But, right as I'm swerving down one catwalk wrapping over the top of a smelting pit for a shortcut, a bright yellow and orange figure swarms into my view and I'm on the wrong end of a plasma cannon.

I can't see her eyes, but I just _know _Samus is glaring at me as I skid to a halt on the mesh-holed metal under my feet. Her stance is wide, blocking the whole walkway with her body. Well…crap.

"Drop it!" she snaps. "Now!"

I shift a bit from foot to foot, trying to buy myself some time while I scan the area around me. There's almost nowhere to go except forward or back. Or _down_, though a lava bath doesn't sound particularly inviting right now. Even though the catwalk's high enough not to be melted by the heat, it still surges up against us from down below, fervent and bubbling orange slag churning in a huge cauldron dug out eight or ten feet below the rim of the pit's wall. There's some immobile machinery above us that's used to drop more scrap into the mix and scoop out huge pots of it for manufacturing.

Samus gives me another warning by preparing to charge up her cannon for a shot. "_Drop_ the _briefcase_," she snarls.

This is the point where I decide that caution no longer exists—and I have to admit, the adrenaline rush is a little exciting. Exciting enough that I can't resist being a little cocky as I hold up the briefcase to show. "What, this old thing? Sorry, Samus. You know I'd love to."

The cannon coils back and she straightens. There's a hesitant twitch in her movements, and I wait, watching her, ready for anything she might happen to throw at me.

"…_You!"_ she sputters in shock. _Me? _Oh—right…

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Of all the people in this wide universe…what the hell is _she _doing with my Fetcher?! I don't have any time to be impressed with what she is—not when she still has the other half of my payment in her possession.

"Who's 'you'?" she quips back. "I don't think I know anyone called 'you'."

The attitude doesn't help any. I'm angry—no, now I'm downright _pissed. _How dare she mock me after _stealing _from me? No matter what parlor tricks she has hidden in that suit, she's making a _big _mistake in thinking she can toy with me like this. Rightfully, I snap back at her, "Don't get smart! What the hell are you doing here?"

She has the nerve to laugh at me; it takes every drop of strength and will not to lunge at her right there. The fingers on my right hand twitch around the cannon trigger. "Same thing you are, obviously," answers my opponent. "What's the matter? Pissed I took your treasure?"

"Figured that out all on your own, did you?" I growl.

She shakes her head at me. "Awww, come on…how was I supposed to know you'd be after this thing?"

I blink at her behind my visor, advancing. "Are you joking? _Please_ tell me that was a joke, because that's the worst lie I've ever heard in my _life_."

"Ah…I'm not a very good liar to start with," she admits. "But don't blame me, blame my employer!" cries the Hunter, shrugging her shoulders and backing away. "Seriously, if it were up to me, I'd much rather work _with _you."

That is enough. I've had it with these games. Aiming my cannon, I take a good shot at her middle; to knock her down, at least, if not incapacitate her some. But she narrowly dodges it, pressing against the side railing of the catwalk—almost falling over into the hissing vat below. "That's your last warning," I tell her grimly, "Now give me the briefcase!"

She cocks her head at me, balancing the briefcase on her knees. "You don't remember my name at all, do you?"

"I knew you for all of one minute," I say, "You tell me."

The Hunter scoffs at me, looking up, "Huh! You're not at all how I pictured you."

Something bristles up the rows of my spine and I aim again, sneering. "Sorry to disappoint." And then I take my shot—she barely misses the whole hit, but I can just see the side of her armor being grazed before she's on me, taking to melee combat. She's _fast! _Pressure smacks against my visor—the heel of her palm, I think—and then the earth moves as her leg takes my balance away and my back hits the metal, heat surging against my suit in a constant growing wave. I fight back by sweeping her down with me and rolling forward to drag her in. She blocks the punch I throw; I'm jerked down again. Jarring vibrations of pain smash through my skull as she cracks her helmet against mine and I reel back onto my feet, hand briefly flying there before I shake back to my senses in time to find her in another fighting stance.

Both of us look down at relatively the same time to see that the briefcase was discarded between us where we used to be. When we look up we stare at each other, wondering who's going to go for it first, I daring her to move the same way as me.

Too bad for her I'm half a second faster. I don't just run for it, I _leap, _sliding across the catwalk after grabbing the handle. She crosses to the side of me and I fire rapidly from my cannon, three or four shots in succession. Two miss, but the other two manage to lock target at her calf. A bright red spider-web of cracks forms in the armor, but it withstands the shots pretty well; though I can see by the way she stumbles for a moment that the pain doesn't go unnoticed.

While I get up to recover from the close-combat attacks, the large crane arms above us whirl to life, beginning slowly to pick up pieces of scrap and to scoop out huge broiling pots of slag from the cauldron below. The heat spikes up and both of us hear a creaking beneath our feet; though it doesn't stop me from taking another shot at my opponent.

But the shots miss, instead ramming the walkway while she flips fully over the side. For a moment I'm struck with shock and wonder if she's really jumped into the pit, looking around too late to find the glow of gravity boots beneath my feet.

And then I barely jerk my foot out of the way as a glowing blue energy blade slices through the steel like paper.

The blade retracts, and is followed by another, and another, and by dodging each one I'm forced down the gauntlet of the strip to keep from getting my legs sliced off. At one point one blade draws out with a screech of metal only for another to carve cleanly through the side of the walkway, railing and all, taking off a chip of my boot. I can hear the structure creaking and groaning under the stress of our fight combined with the smoldering heat of the pit: it's not meant to handle this kind of damage under this temperature. I dare not fire my cannon at this point, too aware that the flimsy thing I'm standing on could give out at any second.

My opponent is either not as observant as I or simply doesn't care: in the next moment she takes a full slash through the walkway, and that's where it cracks down into a slope and starts to collapse. I barely crawl my way up in time to avoid being plunged into the pit as a huge chunk of the catwalk falls into the smelting pit after dinging the protective metal wall. It just happens to be our luck that the rest of the structure soon follows suit.

The entire bridge starts to sway, moving closer and closer to the pit, and I run as fast as possible to beat the fall on the other side. I don't see how she gets out of the mess, focused only on the fact that the temperature spikes higher and higher the longer I take to get out of this area. A running leap over the end of the walkway is my saving grace as the whole thing topples sideways into the pit, breaking off at the poles. The sound of collapsing metal is only just louder than the sound of my feet crunching against the ground at the end of a Screw Attack jump. It breaks some of the impact, but not nearly enough to take away the jolt of the landing.

As soon as I'm ready for whatever's next, a second pair thump to the ground in front of me, and my opponent momentarily wobbles, swinging her arms, before catching her balance. "Woo-hoo, not bad at all!" she laughs.

A growl bubbles up from my throat. Gripping my quarry tightly, I charge the cannon this time before firing. She's too close to dodge it this time.

The clash of plasmatic forces crackles lightning that splits the air; I hear the snap and screech of junk scraping over the earth while her feet skid backwards. I only blink once. It's amazing that she's able to stand against it in the first place—now I find myself wondering how she did it.

I get my answer when the energy dissipates in a bang, forcing the Hunter backwards onto the ground. Two pulsating blue energy blades are out in the open, crossed before her like an 'X': left arm firmly over her front while the right is much lower, the reason being that one blade curls backwards over her forearm while the other protrudes from the wrist. So she braced the impact by absorbing most of the damage into her own weapons; not bad. Pretty creative for a last-minute defense against a charge that big…

For a moment, I think I'm seeing blood, until I realize the red on her arms is not body fluid: it's the color of her bodysuit. Pieces of her armor crack off under the back-curved blade and whole fingers of the suit slide off to join the scrap pile. I allow myself a proud little smile; not what I was hoping to accomplish, but it did leave its mark. I hold my cannon arm steady for another shot, just in case. "Give up?" I ask.

She scoffs at me. "Quitting is for rookies. I'm just getting warmed up!" She stands up, getting into a preparative stance, crossing her defensive blade out across her chest while she positions the outward-extended one towards me just above it. Her stance is firm but narrow, right foot placed behind the left. I can already see that we have very different styles of fighting; meaning I'll have to work to keep my advantage up and the briefcase in my possession.

"Oh, you're no rookie," I supply with a light chuckle, fingers twitching, "But you're not _that _good."

"So who is _that _good—you?" We're circling each other now, trash crumpling under our feet. Whatever expressions we have are kept secret under our helmets and visors. I'm smiling.

"I've lived through enough. Ever fought a drove of Metroids before?"

"Nope. Sounds fun, though!" She can't see my scowl, so she doesn't stop talking as we move. But suddenly I notice she's becoming translucent…fading away, like a ghost. "Bet your Metroids can't pull _this _off," she brags. And just like that, she vanishes—out of sight, and off my radar. I blink in shock behind my visor at the sudden sightless form of my enemy and whirl around, trying to get my bearings. _Shit. _First gravity boots, and now a cloaking device; but there's no way she ran off yet. I still have her target in my left hand.

I can't remember the last time I fought an enemy I couldn't see. On a few occasions I encountered creatures and devices that could hide from plain sight, but I used to have an X-Ray scope to fix that problem quickly. That was when I had my Power or Varia Suit. Neither of which I am wearing. For the first time in years, I'm completely blind against my opponent.

Bitterly, I now know why I didn't pick up on her presence during the trade.

Attempting not to panic, I focus instead on what I _can _do in this situation. My eyes and radar can no longer be trusted; but if I can't believe what I see, maybe I can believe what I hear. I listen closely to the area around me, turning sometimes, but making as little noise as possible. I don't move unless I know it's my footsteps, my motions. Something swishes past behind me and I twist on my feet to aim my cannon, but when I fire I hit only a pile of scrap, causing everything to topple over and make a lot of racket. She could have gotten anywhere around me during that distraction. There are several false alarms after that—a whoosh of wind, an amused chuckle from nowhere—but I hit nothing but ground and trash. After the first few tries I stop shooting because I know I'm making it easier for her to hide the noise of her steps.

She's playing with me. I can't stand waiting around for her to attack, and she _has_ to know I'm getting jittery over this. Come on—where did you go? Show yourself so I can sack you in one shot!

Something shifts behind me; either it's wild luck or the skill of my ears, but I catch the sound of her swords sweeping out before she can take a slice at me. Whirling around, I swing my cannon arm, and it connects with something solid—her helmet. Knocking her aside completely, I hurry to where she falls and pin the Hunter down with a foot crushed against her stomach. I aim my cannon at the same time that she sits herself up enough to lunge a sword up against my throat. The both of us are frozen there, but it isn't a stalemate. I have the upper hand here; she doesn't have enough reach to cut my throat unless I bend forward. She's trying to bluff her way out of this.

At the very least, I can give her a commendation. "I'll admit, you're pretty impressive…but it's not smart to bring swords to a gunfight."

I hear her laughing at me again and my trigger finger twitches. "Thank you. But I think it's _you_ who's bad, for bringing a gun to a swordfight."

There's a long pause while I blink at her words, and, strangely, find myself smiling. And I chuckle. "All this for a box of junk," I mumble.

She seems to share the sentiment. "Yeah…seems silly, doesn't it?"

We stay like that for a long while. Neither of us is making a move; we're just sizing each other up, in the mild awe of a battle's aftermath, wondering how to conclude the whole thing. Either way, one of us is going to lose, and someone's going to walk out of here with wounded pride. At least that's what I can surmise up until the low thrum of ship engines roars above us; I look up, and my heart skips a few steps in shock. A small wave of panic rips through me at this development. So distracted am I that my opponent worms out from under me and jerks up to move, only to be stopped as a wave of blue-suited soldiers drop down from the sky, all of them pointing their weapons at the both of us. It's the Federation Troopers. _Federation Troopers _have dropped in on this disgusting junk pile. How long have they been nearby without my knowing?

"Samus Aran and Riina Claes," says the Captain of the lot, "you are under arrest for stealing from the Galactic Federation. This is a serious treason. If you do not come quietly, you willbe forcibly relocated to the criminal facility on Norion. We will ask you only once: deactivate your weapons _now._"

Shock and panic turn into anger—mostly against me, for getting involved in this when I knew it was too risky. I got sloppy…no, I knew the odds. I fully understood that the Federation could tail me in this district at any time. I was just overconfident…overconfident and highly motivated.

Riina, though, she just sounds stunned. "What?!" she shouts. "You're kidding me!"

"Ma'am, I won't repeat myself, and I suggest you follow my instruction," barks the Captain. Riina swivels her gaze onto him, and I can tell she's angry now.

"Bounty Hunters are not exempt from the law! You can't arrest us without probable cause!"

The Captain motions impatiently towards the thing in my hand, which I turn to look down at. "Your 'probable cause' is in _her _possession!"

Everything falls into place then for me, and I find myself forming a very fast and painful headache. If the Federation is interested in the contents of this briefcase…_shit_…Shield actually found something _valuable _for once. What a crappy turn of events.

Riina clenches her fists tightly, closing in against me and away from the circle of soldiers around us. "You guys just never learn," she grumbles, "Instead of arresting the grunts, you should be going after the Kingpin."

"Unfortunately, until we find that out, you two are our best possible lead," the Captain says. "I'm sorry Riina, but you're not making your case or Samus' any better. Now please deactivate your weapons and come quietly." He hesitates—why is he conversing so casually with her? "Maybe we can work something out," he says.

I turn to look at her, curious about her reaction, just in time to catch her staring back at me. I can barely see her eyes under the nearly black visor on her helmet, but there's a certain quality in them that gives me the hint she's up to something. That and she's changing her stance, widening her feet against the ground. I do the same.

Riina's plasma swords are flickering a little bit—probably because I slammed them so hard with my charge shot—but she still brandishes them in that same pose as before, and the words she speaks next are music to my ears: "Over my dead body."


	7. Phaaze 07: Fetcher, III

**Author's Notes: **No, I have NOT forgotten about this fic. Unfortunately, college has bitten me hard, and so has the car accident I got into over a month ago. Nobody was seriously injured (thank God), and it will be off my record after a Driver Improvement course.

Long story short, real life sucks!

It looks like my plan to update regularly has failed, you guys. But please know that this fic is my current baby and I plan on finishing it--if not for me, then for my co-writer who has now moved to Manchester. I apologize for any delays that may come along as a result. But without further ado, enjoy the newest chapter!

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**Phaaze 07: Fetcher (Part 3)**

This is really, really stupid. Like, beyond _crazy_ kind of stupid. I'll have to check if I have a fever or something when I get back.

There must be ten, fifteen of them, strong. They're all wielding state-of-the-art weaponry; standard issue for the GF military. The Captain shakes his head at us and I'm braced for whatever comes next; I don't know how ready Samus is, but I can only hope for the best.

"Then, you leave me no choice." Raising his hand, the Captain gives the signal to open fire, and all guns charge up for a blast. They're probably set on stun, but still, _those_ things hitting us in a huge barrage from this circle? That's going to smart.

I shove my enemy-turned-comrade in a backwards direction. "Go, go, go!" It's not like she _needs_ the encouragement; it's just the first thing that comes to mind, and both of us are running as fast as our feet can take us as the circle of soldiers rains stun shots on us from all sides. When they zone in on our position, her body leaps up and contracts, with a barely-audible_ whoosh_ of mass and air, into a perfect sphere just a few sizes smaller than a kickball. I don't have the time to stop and marvel at this feat, as much as I would love to—either way, it launches her clear over the soldier's heads, distracting them long enough that I just smash my way through the barricade like an All-Star quarterback.

Warnings flash at me on my visor screen indicating some minor damage to secondary components, and my left leg and the right side of my torso are a little numb in some spots, but it's otherwise ignored and we just keep running. Or rather, I'm running; Samus rolls over the ground a ways before there's another _whoosh _and the crackle of parts coming back into place, and suddenly she's full again, running with me. We duck behind a maze of junk piles and twist through a few corners before stopping to glare at each other.

"Did _you _know about this?" I ask her.

"If I did, you think I would have taken the job?" she snaps back. "What about _you?"_

I throw my arms up, flustered. "I don't even know what's in there! How was I supposed to know the _GF _was going to ambush our hides?!"

Samus takes a hurried glance over her shoulder, hearing the shouts of the Federation Troopers as they clomp closer and closer to our position. She switches her attention back to me. "Fine," she growls quickly, "Then for right now our goals are the same. We need to get out of here."

"Agreed," is all I have to say on the matter.

The troopers behind us are catching up quick—I can hear the Captain shouting orders and soldiers crunching their feet over the rubble. Observation is needed, so observation is done: the entire area around us is practically a hazard. Piles of junk several meters high are scattered all over the place in haphazard patterns between the smelting pits, some of them a handful of distance apart, others so close together toppling one would mean toppling the other like a set of Dominos.

Dominos…

…That gives me an idea.

Sweeping out from behind the tower of crap at our backs, I come face-to-face with the charging group of soldiers running straight for us. They're shouting the usual lines of "There she is!" and "Don't let them escape!" while I peer up at the junk pile and prod it with my hands, checking its sturdiness. A huge metal pipe is thrust out from the ugly, lopsided construction, and I wrap my arms around it and pull. Old computer parts and other such things shudder atop their high perches on the mountain and start to rain down on the hodgepodge ground below.

Samus stands in brief bewilderment. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Puffing between grunts; "Making…a distraction!"

"_Distraction_…?"

The soldiers are closing in fast and they have their guns ready to shoot. Ignoring that helps me to pull harder on the pipe; the screech of scrap on scrap ringing in my suit's audios until the hulking thing finally lodges _itself _loose from the shift of pressure up above. The entire mountain goes tumbling down and I back away, dropping the pipe as the haphazard structure breaks down into a storm of components. The Federation troops stop dead in their tracks at the ominous sound of one junk hill slamming into another. Those who don't get completely trapped under the wave of debris are left with either a trapped limb or the chore of helping their comrades. Fed soldiers are human, after all; why continue to chase two women when ten men could die?

I tag Samus on the shoulder to bolt before the trash has finished falling so we can get a running start before the second wave arrives. We exchange no words, no looks. She seems to understand the importance of getting away from the Federation right now.

"We need a way out," she says. "My ship—"

"—is too far to run for, and besides that, has _abysmally _small cockpit space," I interrupt. Another team of crunching feet, far behind us, but still trying to catch up; a shot grazes my left thigh on the outside and I pick up the pace. We pass a long row of trash piles. I activate my outward-pointing sword and slice a clean streak through the whole pile as we run. London Bridge, anyone?

"My ship is compact and _fast,_ and I've fit one other person inside it before. _He_ didn't complain nearly as much."

The thought of Samus keeping any sort of human company in that tiny space made me uncomfortable just picturing it. "I'm sure you're very warm and very pretty, Samus, but I only snuggle up when I'm not going to wake with a kink in my spine come the next morning."

The thundering, successive crackles of raining junk sound out behind us, almost drowning out Samus' exclamation. "We're escaping with our lives and you're whining about _wiggle room?"_

"Well, not so much wiggle room as the fact that I stabbed you in the back before teaming up with you," I said honestly. "And now we're both angry about something. Very bad mixture, that is."

"I can't tell if you're serious or if you're just bullshitting me," Samus grumbled as I kicked an old television set and a pile of microwaves out of one scrap pile before swerving a corner, sending the thing teetering over.

"That's okay," I told her. "Nigul can't tell half the time, either."

Speaking of Nigul, I should arrange for our ride to pick us up, I'll bet. Yeah, that seems like a novel idea right now. I activate my transmitter. "Nigul? You'd better have an ear open for me right now. We're in some serious trouble."

"I know," echoes the reply.

Wait…what? I stop in my tracks. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Riina!" Samus snaps. I hold up a ceasing hand, waiting for Nigul's answer. It finally arrives: "Look above you."

I look up. Samus does, too. And, with dread, I realize what Nigul was talking about: the _Victor _streaks past us in the skies, tailed hotly by Federation ships, _firing _on Nigul as though he were a common Space Pirate.

Well, crap, _that's _no good.

"So, as you can see, I am a bit tied up at the moment," Nigul explained. I could hear the tightness in his voice, the frustration as he tried to shake off his pursuers. "But if you can wait, oh…say five minutes, I can come back, no problem."

"We don't have five minutes!" I cry. "Nigul, just—distract them for us! Okay?"

"I don't think _that_ will be an issue." Nigul hisses suddenly, cursing in Luminoth. "Heavens above, I just fixed that! You'd better find a way out of there, Riina. I can't turn this ship on a dime!"

I wince beneath my helmet because I can hear the minor explosion that preceded the comment. It isn't until I cut the transmission that I look up and find Samus aiming her cannon behind us. Whirling around just as she fires, I follow the shot with my eyes until it clips some poor trooper squarely in the face. He won't be seriously hurt, but he does go flying back. And then I realize how _close _they are, and figure I've wasted enough time standing still. A sweep over the area reveals no immediate trash heaps that would stop the troopers in their tracks; looks like we'll be doing this the hard way this time.

Samus takes down another with a well-charged shot, and the troopers let loose on us without any sort of hesitation. Leaping in mid-activation of my pack, I use its levitating properties to launch myself at the throng of Feds, cloaking myself right after punching a front-liner in the gut. I take his gun and throw it at the head of another one and it shoots a wild shot into the sky. Confusion wobbles through the group like a rickety virus. Samus uses it to shoot some more of them unconscious—I use it to kick and punch until the crowd drops into a chorus of moans on the ground. I even have a little bit of fun and whack one with the briefcase.

Though I can't see her face, I can feel Samus glaring at me when it's taken care of. I hurry back over to her in plain sight. "Okay, I take that back," I digress, "maybe we _should _take your ship."

No response, not even an angered sigh, though she's so tense I can _sense _the annoyance. But we don't have time to bitch at each other about how stupid we've been, so when Samus runs, I run, too. "Although, you don't honestly expect us to run all the way there, do you?"

"Since you asked so _nicely, _we could call my ship over and be leaving in thirty seconds, if you can find me a clear landing space," she sneers.

It takes me a moment to think about that. "There's a small storage building a bit to the west of us. Would the roof of that work?"

"Fine."

Peachy, sunshine response confirmed, we steer towards the storage building. It's close enough that I can point it out in the distance within several paces: a rotted-looking, off-white facility covered in drips of muck and caked-on slag. Clearly hasn't been repaired in many, many years, if it's ever been touched at all. The roof isn't very high; I could probably jump it…except I wasted the last of that chance fighting the troops.

Samus doesn't seem to have the same idea. She just barges into the facility, busting a hole in the garage door after running ahead of me. _Christ, _she's like a damn juggernaut! Who let this bull loose in the china shop?

She slows to a stop in the middle of the space, which is plenty clear, and opens a door on her suit's arm to reveal a command pad where she begins punching in coordinates. I slow to a halt before even thinking of going to the roof. "Uh, Samus? We need to be up there?" I point to the ceiling.

"Why? Clear enough in here. Besides, I already called the ship."

I feel like I shouldn't find myself surprised, and yet somehow I am. "How do you figure that? You going to blast a giant hole in the roof just because?"

"Yes," she says bluntly.

Jesus, I was just kidding! "What the hell for?!"

About ten seconds of silence pass, and then after ten more Samus starts to step back towards the edge of the compound. "I'd move, if I were you."

The roar of an engine is nearly right above me as she says it, leaving me with little time other than to dart to the nearest wall of boxes just as the roof comes crashing down in a pile of rubble. Samus' rickety old ship lowers itself smoothly through the ripped-open entryway, lowering a lift for us to board. I hesitate before moving for it, Samus beating me there.

"The Federation is full of scum and lowlifes," Samus explains. "Worse than Shield or any of the other underground slobs I've worked with. If they're going to make my life miserable, I'm going to make theirs a living hell."

Guess I can see the logic in that—I've wanted to do that sometimes, too.

Silence as I shuffle carefully onto the lift with her. The space is pretty tight. "Damn," I mumble. "Bitter much?"

The lift takes us up and Samus tugs me in by the arm before the closing opening can clip my flight pack. "Just a little," she agrees. Hard to tell how much sarcasm is there.


	8. Phaaze 08: Company Courtesy

**Author's Notes: **8 pages in Word Document! That's a LONG chapter for me.

The Fetcher is brought to a close, but Samus is left with more questions than she is answers...and a few new problems to boot.

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**Phaaze 08: Company Courtesy**

"Sit there and don't move." I point to the limited space behind me as I take my seat in the cockpit, commanding the ship to take off. She, of course, does not take my advice and instead decides to stand, but the joke's not on me if she goes flying back during take-off. I hear the briefcase being dropped to the floor as I fire up the thrusters and pull us up off the ground. "You sure your Luminoth friend has them distracted?"

"His name's Nigul," she supplies, "And yes, I'm sure he's going to be very upset if they blow off another part of our ship."

"Good enough."

The computer screen rolls down from the ceiling of the cockpit, takes up a miniscule sliver of my vision, flickering online with the voice of its speaker. "Well, it took you long enough, lady! Was there some kind of party that I missed?"

Riina doesn't hide her surprise. "Is that…what is that?"

Ignoring her, managing a smile under my helmet, "Yeah, I missed you too, Adam."

"Adam?" She questions.

"Who's this, Samus? You finally found yourself a lady-friend?"

Riina sputters, unsure what to think of my CO. Adam laughs as we take off, the rock of the ship forcing Riina to brace herself as the thin atmosphere is briefly torn open. "Come on, what? Is there something stuck on my face?" Adam asks.

I wait until we're securely out in space before introducing the two of them. "Riina, Adam, Adam, Riina. She's a Bounty Hunter who intercepted my catch. And we are _not _lady-friends."

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_Ouch. Point or no, that's _one_ way to put me down…_

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"Riina, eh?" chuckles Adam. "Well, howdy there, Riina. I'm Commander Adam Malkovich."

Pushing on the thrusters, I can practically smell her realization. "How could you—that can't be right. Adam Malkovich died _years_ ago. His name's not even on the roster!"

Wait a minute.

How does _she _know the Federation roster?

First, that quick exchange with the Captain down there, and now this about the roster…even if Bounty Hunters make it their business to know their enemies and employers, Riina's too knowledgeable in the GF's workings. Most Hunters don't even bother to check the roster—it's too extensive and eats up wasted time, and besides that, it's downright boring.

"Well, not the official one, no," Adam says. "Just so happens that the Federation takes to transferring the minds of its most celebrated officers into computer data for future access. We're down, but not out." He laughs, "But I've served the Federation for thirty years of my life—I wasn't going to keep working for them from the grave! So, here I am…"

Silence. Riina still grips whatever she can on the ceiling to remain upright, staring at Adam in awe and bewilderment. I continue to steer us away from the junk yard below until it hits the point where I want answers.

"Samus, your ship's computer is the most celebrated military genius of the Federation?"

"Yes," I say quickly.

"…_Most celebrated military genius_. Of the _Federation._"

A sigh; "He's my CO and my friend. Could we switch our attentions for a moment? You need to answer some questions."

It takes her a moment to respond. There's confusion in her voice when she does. "…Questions?"

"How do you know so much about the Galactic Federation?"

_Not _so long a pause. "What's it matter if I do?" Riina quips defensively. Grip on the controls tightens as the ship rumbles. Come on, don't fall apart on me now…

"How do I know you're not working with that Captain and trying to turn me in?" (At this point, anything to get her talking would be good.)

She bursts into nervous laughter. "That doesn't make any sense! I just helped you get away from them!"

"All the same," I argue, "You could just be acting."

"You're paranoid, is what you are," she accuses me.

"Paranoia helped me to survive this long."

Hints of a growl this time, "You know what else helps that? Minding your own business."

This is getting me nowhere. Such a stubborn girl… "If you have nothing to hide, then prove it to me! Tell me why you know what you know."

In her reflection, I can see her tensing where she stands. "Due respect aside, _drop _it."

A faint blip from the controls interrupts our argument. "Ladies?" Adam queries, "Hate to interrupt your cat fight, but we're being hailed. As luck would have it, it's a member of the Federation. Captain Tristan Bale."

I have no doubt that's the Captain from the surface. I turn quickly to gauge Riina's reaction. She's still holding on with a death grip; probably glaring at me under her helmet. Smirking, I go back to Adam. If she won't give me information, maybe her friends in the Federation will. "Open up a channel."

In seconds, Adam's voice is replaced with that of the Captain's, green line wavering on the screen to his pitch. "Bounty Hunters, you are endangering yourselves and your clients by resisting arrest. I will ask you only once to turn your ship around and come with us _quietly_ to HQ for processing."

"We'll decide who's endangering whom, Captain," I respond calmly. "But first, maybe you could—"

Riina lurches forward and grabs the back of my seat, removing her helmet in a huff. "Get your men off Nigul's tail!"

…Trying so _very _hard not to get angry. Where does she get off taking over the negotiations like that? On _my _ship, no less! (Then again, it may give some insight into her connections. Now would be the time to back off…whether I like it or not.)

"Riina, is that you?" wonders the Captain. "Your friend Nigul is involved in this affair, too, isn't he? By law, I have to arrest him along with the both of you."

Rage flies over her expression. "Are you an _idiot?_ Need I remind you that Nigul is a standing member of the Luminoth? How do you think Aether's going to react when the Federation shows up arresting one of their own?"

"Forgive me if I was under the impression we already burned those bridges," he mutters. "Isn't that what the ARP is for?"

"Aether and its surrounding colonies founded the ARP in _conjunction _with the Federation. You assholes are the ones who left us sitting out there. Don't you dare say _we're_ the ones who gave the slap to the face!" Her fingers are digging into my seat. I can hear the material squelching under her grasp. "If you pull Nigul in for helping to restore the planet, I can guarantee you Luminoth trade will wither on the vine."

"The Luminoth need all the income they can get. Whether or not arresting their own is an insult, such a move would be foolhardy."

She doesn't have a response to that. I can see the frustration in her face: teeth gnashed tightly together, a wall of angry white hissing words of distaste. Eyes burning until they're more gold than green.

"Riina," the Captain sighs, "the briefcase in your possession contains valuable property of the Federation. I _must _have it returned to me. If you could just do that, then maybe I can pull some strings; let all of you go without charge. How does that sound?"

"_What _valuable property?" she demands. Good question—I've been wondering that, too. I need to know what I was cheated into before I go shoot that miserable Kriken in the face.

"That's classified."

Riina lets go of her ceiling anchor and steps back some before I hear the low hum of an energy sword. "You wanna bet?" When I turn to check, she's crouching by the briefcase, sword poised as she stands it on its side. I smile.

"What are you doing?" snaps the Captain.

The sound of shattered metal and broken locks rings in the cockpit space and my smile widens. "De-classifying your classified briefcase," I say.

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Over the noise of Tristan's protests is the clang and clatter of my tearing into the metal box. Slicing off every lock and mechanism keeping it shut, sparks flying everywhere when I nick the fancy mechanics on the lip. When I've all but cut it to ribbons I retract my swords, wedge my fingers in and flip the top.

A din of silence falls. I can't say that I'm surprised at the contents; still doesn't make them hurt any less, though.

Two mid-size pistols, sleek blue frames nestled in a firm bed of gray foam, stare out at me. The magazines are tucked away on either side of them. An instruction manual and set of blueprints are strapped to the inside of the lid, giving me names and specs that I briefly look over. New and improved plasma firing mechanism; built-in target tracker for increased accuracy; solar-powered battery that can last for months without a charge. Set to stun for civilians and "fry it dead" for Space Pirates. It's impressive, I'll admit that much—this is top-of-the-line stuff, but I've never seen it before. That can only mean one thing: _prototypes._

Even if this is guessing at a stretch, it doesn't stop me from glaring in the direction of Tristan's voice. "So…how do you and your cronies like your new little toys, Trist?"

"Riina, for God's sake," he groaned, "weapons improvement happens nearly every day. You didn't used to care about what guns we manufactured…"

"Sure, when I was _twelve,_" I snap. "But that was before, you know, you decided extending the arms of the Federation was more important than helping us and the Luminoth…who are right on your doorstep."

"I'm not going to argue politics with you here!" He growled. "_Seeing_ as how you're not going to give us the briefcase, I simply have no choice but to target Nigul and track you both down."

Static noise mucks up the frequency, painful on all of our ears before it goes away. When it settles, a third voice joins in on the conversation: deep and heavily accented in Luminoth. "My apologies, Captain, but I'm afraid I don't like the idea of being caged in a tiny cell."

Relief floods through; I smile wide. "Nigul!"

"But I commend your officers for trying," he continued. "They should be returning to you any moment now reporting that they'll need repairs on their ships. And speaking of repairs…they've made a whole new mess for _me _to clean up, too. Rather displeasing."

Tristan is silent. I can't help but cackle on the inside and gloat for our victory. Poor guy just never got the hang of our style!

"Those prototypes are volatile, unfinished models. If you sell them into the hands of your dealer, you could be endangering every person, every _colony _they come into contact with."

My smile flips. Anger boils, though more controllable now. "And if I give them back to _you, _I could be endangering every species you deem 'worthy' of the GF's attentions." I close and pick up the briefcase, dangling it in one hand while bringing out my right sword. It barely keeps together as I cleave through it completely, sparks and plasma energy spitting out in rivers. I rip everything into pieces of four or more and look at Samus, whom I notice has been watching me half the time. She seems to understand and opens up the waste disposal near my feet. I kick the shattered remains down the shaft and watch them float past us through space.

"No dealer or Bounty Hunter is going home with those prototypes today; but neither are you."

"They aren't the only ones in existence, Riina," he sighs. "You really think you can make a difference just by tearing up that briefcase and tossing it to the stars?"

Smirk. "I must have made an awful big one _somehow_, for you to make such a fuss over them."

In the quiet that follows, I can hear Samus chuckling.

"I think we're done here, Captain," Nigul purrs. "Riina, I will meet with the two of you shortly. I'm certain you can tie things up here." Another burst of static and Nigul is off the channel. Tristan is none too happy about the development: his voice is strained, tight-lipped to the point where every word is a venomous hiss. I forgot how capricious he can be when he's in one of his tempers.

"Make no mistake, you two: just because you're in the ARP doesn't mean you're off the hook for this. Perhaps it's not the best idea to arrest you, but I _can _press charges. You've just destroyed valuable Federation property."

"Go ahead then," I challenge. "Press your stupid charges! You know as well as I do that I can pay that sucker out of pocket."

"_However_, I can't say the same thing for Samus." Her head snaps up; so does mine. "Legally, her ties with the Federation were severed long ago. For a felony like this, I could have her brought in on a penalty for life."

The ship quivers and veers sharply to the left; I'm unable to tell whether it was the ship itself or Samus hitting the point of shock. Either way, when it all settles out, I can see her clutching the controls with a death grip suitable to an adult Sheegoth pinning down its prey.

"If you really care about keeping _her_ safe…I would suggest you make good use of the head start I'm giving you."

I gawk at the computer screen, before grinding my teeth tight and leering. "Bastard," I growl. "You think giving us a head start makes up for the fact that you're a complete asshole?"

The cold shoulder comes in full swing. "I'm not disputing how much you probably hate me right now."

"I hardly think it needs to be said," Samus grumbles, voice tight. Silence cuts through the cockpit.

"You have twelve hours," Tristan informs us. "That is all."

Neither of us seems to care that the transmission cuts after that, and we're left to ourselves. I bite my lip, looking out at the stars. Words fail me at that point and all I can do is sigh deeply. I do want to help Samus…I feel partly responsible for getting her caught in that mess just then, even if she tried to steal the case too. But what the hell are my options supposed to be?

The infinite expanse of space drifts us by for a while before a private transmission breaks the quiet. Even the great Adam Malkovich didn't appear to have any words of wisdom for us during the moments that followed. Both of us spy a signal on the tracking screen before we hear the hailing call. "It's your friend Nigul," he reports.

No hesitation on Samus' part. "Patch him through."

I lean forward to listen, realizing for the first time that her sound system appears to be pretty out of shape. I'm not sure how I was able to make out Tristan's words before. "I've found you. I'm approaching on your starboard side; do you see me?"

"Yeah, we do," I say, checking the massive signal blipping at us from the ship's panel.

"Brilliant. Samus, I would like to couple our ships together for the time being, if that is acceptable."

I watch her, both of us awaiting her green light; she hesitates a moment before answering. "Fine…I've got some questions still, anyway."

"I'll walk you through the docking sequence," Nigul offers. "I'm not quite sure how well it will adapt to your ship, since the mechanism it uses is rather out-of-date…still…prepare for contact in T-minus fifteen seconds."

"Roger that." Samus cuts the thrusters and slows our momentum to a crawl, setting up her ship for docking. To try and smooth out the kinks, I watch the gauges and numbers that pop up on the computer screen as she works it with curiosity. "What's your ship's model number?" I ask.

"It doesn't have a model," Samus replies, "It's a Hunter Class custom."

Humm; having a model number would have made it easier to pinpoint the sequence involved. "Then do you at least know what kind of hydraulics you're using?"

"Semi-magnetic double-pump; XG-04 structure type, roughly," she lists. I wince. She's still working with the _double-pump_ system? Everyone's gone fully magnetic since almost _ten years_ ago.

"This could kill your pump hydraulics," I caution. "_Victor_ runs on fully-magnetic."

Samus sighs as the shadow of the _Victor _looms over us, ready to couple up. "Oh well," she mutters. "Not like there's much else still working on this piece of crap anyway."

I've never heard a Hunter put down their ship quite like _that _before. But then again…frowning, I wonder, "If it's such a piece of crap, why do you still have it? Why not at least set your eyes on a newer model?"

"Part of it is sentimental value," Samus explains. "The other part of it is cost."

"You don't have the time for it," I venture.

Samus snorts. "Or the money; gotta eat at least _half _of the time."

…I'm still in half-bewilderment that I'm hearing these grim proverbs from the mouth of one of the most notorious and talented Bounty Hunters in history.

"Ready for docking, Samus?" Nigul asks.

Samus gives the go-ahead; but I cut in for a moment after a quick thought. "Nigul, could you cut the docking magnetics down to about fifty percent?"

"I most certainly can, but could I inquire into the reasoning behind it?"

"This ship is on semi-mag D-pumps," I explain. "If we drag her in full strength with the state she's in now, the pumps are gonna get shot to hell."

Nigul mutters something in breathy passing on the Luminoth tongue, before doing as I asked and helping Samus through the docking sequence. It takes a few minutes, and her ship doesn't stick at first, but eventually with a mild shudder we make contact and she diverts all of the energy towards staying in place and running the necessities.

"You didn't have to do that," she says, turning to look at me as everything settles. "About halving the magnetics I mean."

I only shrug back at her, offering a smile. "Nigul always believes that if you take care of your ship, your ship will take care of you. I can tell that this ship is older than the frickin' sun…" I look around the interior, chuckling, "and that it runs a ten-years-old double-pump hydraulics system…but you say it has sentimental value, and that it's a custom, so it must have seen you through a lot. And if that's true, then it's one hardy little bitch for not falling apart at the seams until now." I grin. "That's impressive enough for me."

"…Thanks," is all she has for that. And it's enough.

We go up into the belly of the Victor together, and have to maneuver to a separate elevator after boarding to get to the main deck. I try not to fidget while we wait—it isn't much of a ride, anyway. Still I fish for a topic of discussion.

"About the briefcase," I start.

"…Don't bother." Samus fiddles with her helmet; presses its buttons until it hisses and she can remove it with ease. She scruffs her fingers roughly through her hair while exhaling a breath. "I'm a little disappointed that I won't be getting the second half of my payment, but…I think I would have done the same as you." Samus frowns, looking down at her helmet; eyes narrowed to slits while her tired face tightens at its lines. "My gut instinct told me not to take that mission. The pieces just didn't fit together. Stupid me; I didn't listen."

I don't have any words of comfort for her, because I don't want to risk being condescending. So I choose instead to keep my mouth shut. I don't know what it's like for her right now; I'm sure any amount of money must be a good pull for her, no matter the risks. But as sure as I am, I don't _really _know. And it may sound silly to say so, but I'm afraid of finding out.

Samus looks over at me at one point as we reach the deck. "You and that Captain talked like you knew each other," she notes.

"Oh…" I laugh. Some. "Yeah, I guess so. That's because we do."

"How did you come to know him?" she asks. By the inquisitive tone, I can tell she's just gone right back to prying me for information…she wants to know how I'm connected to the Federation, no doubt. I guess I can at least offer her this much as we head up to Nigul at the main controls.

_Christ, _my poor Celare suit is missing a lot of pieces. I wiggle two red fingers on the left arm and try so very hard not to pick at the cracks forming everywhere else. "We were best friends," I say.

"Were?" Samus wonders.

I clarify. "He and I hooked up at one point, but it was a botch relationship." I shake my head, roll my eyes. I'm over it now. "Our parents knew one another, so, growing up, we saw one another a lot. But past the point of technology, we just never saw eye-to-eye. After a few months and some such we broke it off."

She seems ready to ask more, except at that point Nigul bursts in and jerks my arm up with frightful alarm. "Your suit! What happened to it?" he demands.

"I got into a fight?" I offer questionably, snickering. "No need to baby it. It's just a few scratches here and there; not like any of the good system tech was damaged."

"The armoring is clean off in some places!" Nigul complains. He turns my arm and sticks a finger inside one of the sword bases. Sparks eat at the claw. "And you've crushed half the defensive blade! What on earth were you doing down there?"

Samus and I exchange glances before I turn back to Nigul. "Bro, stuff happens. Don't worry about it. Is it fixable?"

"Is it fixable? Of course it's _fixable. _If by 'fixable' you mean a royal pain in my ass." Nigul lets my arm drop with a grumble, and shakes his whole body like a flustered puppy, wings fluttering briefly behind him. "First those Federation bug-ships shoot off my plasma hook and damage the new energy subverters, and now _you_ come home with your blades in disrepair…"

"Oh, excuse me for being such a nuisance!" I laugh. "Would you rather I stay up late into the wee hours of the morning working on them _with_ you?"

"Verily, one would hope so!" Nigul exclaims. He finally flickers his attention to Samus, folding his hands together courteously and bending into a low bow. She's smirking at him when he does, though for whatever reason, I can't tell. Perhaps our little exchange amused her somehow. "So, Samus, it is an honor at last to meet you properly. You said you had some questions?"

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I _did _have some questions, but maybe they can wait for now. I have more important things to worry about: like telling Shield to go stick it to a Reptilicus and finding a place to relocate to. I'm running out of places to hide; the Federation's chokehold has been exponentially increasing in the last few years. Almost no place is safe anymore.

"Maybe a little later," I say. "Instead, I'd like it if we could stop by someplace first while my ship takes a break…I'm not sure it could handle a long flight right now."

I need to grab what I can and get the hell out of Kaon before Tristan decides to change his mind.


	9. Phaaze 09: Family Values

**Author's Notes: **Happy New Year, my readers! No, I assure you I have not forgotten about this story. Honestly, I will be shocked and humbled if anyone is still reading this with how sporadic my updates are. But if you are, then I guess I'll make a New Year's Resolution: to get over my writer's block and deliver more chapters!

Not much to say about this one in particular. I hope it's as enjoyable as the last update was. Savor it well, I intend to get the story really rolling soon!

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**Phaaze 09: Family Values**

"_I could be brown, I could be blue, I could be violet sky,_

_I could be hurtful, I could be purple, I could be anything that you like…"_

I press my face to my hand. "Oh, man." This song hasn't been played since Earth's heyday ages ago—way before any colonies ever existed. I didn't know people still listened to this.

Nigul looks up from his work, Riina's suit sprawled out across the dining table in their spacious main deck. Well, spacious for _me, _anyway—for most people, I think. The _Victor _is by no means modest in terms of size. It's no giant, but my gunship barely covers the belly. "What is it?" he questions.

Words still lilting through my head as I respond. "I wasn't aware there were still existing _copies _of this song."

The Luminoth can't really smile. Facial expressions go a different way for them because they don't have the mouths to pull it off. But despite that, when I look up and see Nigul's face, he seems to be squinting his eyes as if he really could tug a smirk into the mix. "It's amazing, the things one can find on the black market."

I lift an eyebrow curiously. "You sure you didn't find it in a scrap heap?"

He trills a high-pitched note, which is his way of laughing. "Be careful about that; Riina would be insulted to hear such a blasphemous phrase."

Except Riina is, at the moment, taking a steam shower somewhere in the back of the ship, where the two of them live half the time…which explains where the music is coming from.

I haven't listened to music in the shower in years…

The memories keep my mind off the incessant twitching in my fingers, claws pushing uncomfortably against the inner mechanics of the suit. I am very glad the cannon-arm disguises such minute movements under its bulk. It does not, however, disguise tweak after tweak of accumulating agony searing through my veins as my self-destructive genetics cry out for lifeblood. It could not have chosen a more poorly-timed moment to resurface. "How much longer before we reach Kaon?" I ask, the impatience setting in.

"Another half hour, give or take," Nigul answered calmly. Then he adds, "Working energy subverters would make the trip a little shorter, but she'll overheat now if I make her go any faster."

A frown creases into my face and I drum my fingers inside the cannon-arm, trying to ignore the monstrous urges. "What do you have a set of subverters for? All you guys do is hunt pieces of technology, right?" It's not as if they need anything other than a good tractor beam, a grappling hook and the sturdiness to carry cargo, big and small. Owning subverters means there's extra goodies on the ship, which means they have more than the bare basics. I'm curious to know about the upgrades…from one custom-job owner to another.

Nigul trills again, threading a needle-head screwdriver into the mechanism on the left arm of Riina's suit, where her defensive energy blade recedes. The generators are turned off, obviously, for the Luminoth to work on its machinery and fix whatever is wrong. I'm a little mesmerized by the delicate attention he pours into the task. With those long fingers, many believe the Luminoth are all about the _look_ of grace but terrible with handling objects. Clearly, they have never seen one put to work. "It would be faster to list what I _don't _need the subverters for."

"Humor me," I insist. "What else are you packing on this ship?"

There's a brief pause while Nigul twists the screwdriver around inside the suit, crossing it with a long metal hook, scissoring the two tools together to fix something so small I wouldn't be able to see it without squinting. All I can observe from here is his frustration with the repairs themselves and how he seeks to remedy the problem.

"Well, there _was_ a high-functioning plasma grappling hook…as to what was _not_ shot off, we are equipped with a second set of thrusters for an extra speed boost, and a whole host of miniature smart missiles, as well as a double-layer energy shield." Nigul paused in his work to meet my stare. "That's just naming the major components. I'm still hoping to get my hands on a better hyper-drive."

A blink, "What's wrong with your hyper-drive?"

Nigul lowers his tools and cranes his head over towards the nearby hallway. "Do you see those cryo-chambers over there?"

_Hearing _the term makes the gelatin muscles in my right arm squeeze until they tremble. Turning my head to look at them feels like a chore, the very thought of any sort of cold seizing the Metroid half of me in a primal, defensive terror. "We need those because the hyper-drive only works at half capacity, maximum. Meaning, in short, it can only take us half as far, and half the time we're only halfway to where we need to go."

"…I see." Quickly returning to him, eager for a distraction, "You must do some pretty deep salvaging, then. Even at half capacity, most hyper-drives can get normal Hunters to where they need to be."

"Correct—and we are no normal Hunters," Nigul chuckles. But as soon as he's back to work, he's also back to murmuring about repairs. "That hyper-drive's been broken since several missions ago. We get paid well for our services, but the drive I'm looking for is hard to find: at full strength it could carry us to the Black Band and back without fretting about an overload."

Sweet _Jesus…_not only do they have the ability to go that far, they actually have the balls to _use _it. The Black Band is a notorious expanse of space ringing in all known charted galaxies, a fair distance out from any concentrated civilization, but still known to exist by just about everyone. It is named so for the reason that in the Band, there is nothing but stars and asteroids. No technology…no colonies…nothing.

"We'd have a new one by now if the model weren't so elusive. That's the one problem with customizing a ship: you end up picking things that are either very obscure or strictly underground."

"I guess it also helps to conserve energy when you're out in the Band, huh?"

Nigul looks up quickly, eyes leering. "Oh, yes, but we never go _into_ the Band!" He insists, shaking his head. "It's far too dangerous. Any expanse of space that big with no technology is every sane Hunter's nightmare. But we have come quite close many times. Still, even skirting along its edges can be a test of survival; part of being a Tech Hunter is learning how to stock and use supplies sparingly."

Makes sense…being away from home for a long time can be a serious measure of skill and willpower on any Hunter.

…My arm convulses again. The table shudders under its movements and I tug my arm back and press it to my side as subtly as I can. Beneath the bulk of my Fusion Suit, I can feel my body getting hot with sweat. Even my thoughts are drifting towards feeding time; a tiny voice in the back of my head wails and cries at me, weeping about how hungry I am. I feel lucky that Nigul doesn't notice my breakdown, and redirect all of my energy in trying to stave it off.

"So this Aether project-thing of yours, it's all about reversing the damage the Ing have done to the planet, right?"

Nigul goes on with his repairs, not bothered by my interruptions. He tinkers here and there with the suit, picking up small gears and mechanisms, swapping them in as he pulls out the damaged ones. "Not just that; we've lost a fair amount of records on our history thanks to them, and many of the technologies on Aether that help us to survive are either completely destroyed or severely damaged. That is why we go hunting for that very tech—so that we can restore Luminoth civilization and lower the body count. It isn't just the Ing that are a danger to us anymore." He looks up from his work momentarily as the song changes to something else in the background of the ship. "You know, Riina is one of the founders of the ARP. She's its co-executive and its most active hunter."

I'm genuinely surprised by this. "Really, now?" I muse. Co-executive and co-founder of a planet-wide restoration project, and spends her time scouring the galaxies for elusive technology when she's not pushing pencils—that's not bad at all. "She must make a pretty penny off of that."

"Riina receives a regular salary for her hunting, but refuses the pay she would normally be given as a manager."

This stuns me even more. "How is that smart? Just a few years of doing that kind of work, with a double salary like that, she'd be set for life…"

Nigul squints again and sounds a trill as he begins to repair the suit's missing pieces. A stack of small armor patches sit beside him that he can weld into shape to temporarily replace or patch over the open holes. "You don't know Riina very well yet," he chuckled. "She considers management a side job. Whenever at last we accomplish a mission and a piece of our history is laid bare in our hands, her eyes light up and she cheers for us. She'll marvel over our objective the entire way home, and then help to install it when we make landfall. Our kind's well-being is her passion."

Silence overtakes me then. _Our kind's well-being is her passion._ That sentence echoes in my ears, emphasizing the last two words: _her passion._ Riina is in love with the Luminoth so much that she puts her life on the line for them every day, risking breath and limb to bring them the tech they need to get back on their feet. I almost don't believe it. I don't hear such valiant stories anymore…for so long, the world I've lived in has been constructed of one bleak, filthy grime-hole after another, the stink of greed and petty squabbles offending my nostrils and blinding my eyes to the good that's still out there. For so long, I've dealt with nothing but scheming binge-rats and fallen has-beens, doing everything short of clawing eyes out for a decent pay to afford my food and rent.

It doesn't help that her being so enthralled by the Luminoth reminds me of one of my own past connections.

I don't cry. But I'm still deeply moved, and thoroughly impressed.

"Nigul likes to make fun of me." The voice prompts me to turn around, and I see Riina walking into the room, pale green towel wrapped around her, sweat and water still clinging to her skin. Another green towel is draped over her head, and she uses it to ruffle her hair dry as she walks into the room. I'm a bit startled by the sudden entry line, and have to wonder how long she'd been standing there. "He always says I'm too Luminoth for a human body," she explains. "Sometimes he likes to insist my mind got switched at birth and implanted in another baby. He forgets the only real human contact Luminoths have ever had is with the Federation, and that they're a bunch of frost-bitten asswipes."

I smirk. That does sound like the Federation.

"That is not making fun. That is a legitimate compliment," argued Nigul. "And besides, not even our human friends in the ARP are as culturally immersed as you are. You practically beat with the same heart as we do."

"Yeah, but I really owe it to you guys," Riina laughs. She comes up beside me to peek in on Nigul's work, and addresses me with a sideways glance. "You notice how the Celare is outwardly structured to imitate a Luminoth body? That was all Nigul's idea. He helped build it, along with myself and a couple others in his tribe. It was a present for founding the Aether Resurrection Project."

At this, I break into an amused smile. "If this was such a prestigious gift to you, why don't you take better care of it?"

Riina throws one arm up and it slaps against her side as it falls. "Great! Nigul, what did you say to her? Now you've got her ragging on me, too."

"I said nothing to encourage," Nigul hums, sparks spitting everywhere while he welds on temporary armor pieces, guarding his eyes with a pair of strange blue-tinted goggles. "Besides, I rather agree with her. Sometimes you come back with damage that could have easily been avoided."

"Aw, come on, give me a break! We can't all be perfect!" Watching her, I chuckle at Riina's protests. She shakes her head and sighs heavily, presumably because she settles with giving up the fight. She starts to turn away, glancing at me as she dries her hair. "Well, anyway, steam shower's free if you want it, Samus. I gotta go find a clean change of clothes before we dock back in Kaon."

I'm glad for it. Maybe getting clean will distract me from the ever-intensifying thirst my right arm desires to quench. "Thank you," is all I can sigh to this note, immediately getting up to go take Riina's place in the steam shower.

"Down that hall and through the first door on your left!" Riina shouts as I leave, pointing down the right direction. Following her advice, I reach a mid-sized bathroom and lock the door, molting my Fusion Suit and hanging it where available. Peeling my Metroid arm out yields the stink of old flesh-goo mixed with sweat that has caked onto the inside, making me wrinkle my nose in displeasure. Not a smell I'm not used to, but I can't be bothered to fix it. Every time I clean it out, twice as much as before returns to take the place of what I've purged. After a while, I failed to see the point of it—it only cakes up the protective inside and not the actual mechanics of my cannon, so there's no technical hazard.

I can't stop my arm from twitching while I force myself under the hot spray of steam and water droplets, and I can't stop the volatile half of my mind from begging for substantial food. It sickens me and I do everything possible to distract it, but more often than not end up clasping the monstrous arm to my stomach while the claws jerk this way and that. I glare at them, _willing_ them to be still.

It seems like Fate is out to spite me, since as a rebuttal, pain snaps up my nerves and I cry out shortly as my Metroid arm seizes, tearing out of my grip, trembling something horrible. Flashes blink through my mind about my nightmares where I sink the claws into myself and drain me of my own life energy until someone comes along and touches me. My ashes fall to the floor under my feet and are washed away by the water and steam. Irrational terror strikes me during my hallucination. I pull myself out of the steam in a hurry, rush over to the sink and crank the water on, make it as cold as it can possibly get. I plunge my hand beneath the spray and it's all I can do not to scream, _agony _searing through me like frost on the fringe of a burning fire, needle-point stabs crawling up my arm and back down again.

But at least the bitch goes quiet, and I can go on with my life. My arm will be numb until feeding time. That's the way I'd like to keep it.

Still, I can't help but think: the mutation is getting worse. There are two halves of me now, and the other half just now very nearly took the driver's seat. It's getting _sentient_ and it thinks it's got the balls to order me around.

Well, fuck you. You are not the boss of me. Try that shit again, and I'll blow you halfway to hell.


End file.
